But fuck it. The worst is over. :D

Together, the combination of no money + being shit at sexual intercourse, is basically how I felt after watching this film. I’m sorry to say. Actually I’m not. A quick Google search returns several positive reviews. So, you decide.

It all started when I received 2 free tickets to the pre-screening of X-Men: First Class. Upon arrival at Nu-Metro, I was introduced to a club bouncer demanding my cellular telephone.  Appalled at his lack of fundamental understanding in smartphone knowledge (an iPhone 3g barely permits photos let alone a screener quality video for torrent), I instead decided test my weakness, and allow this ogre to give me a ticket in return for my phone. A smart decision. On my part.

So we all wander into this unholy cinema, blessed with seats. And upon sitting, we are suddenly interrupted during our popcorn feasting(pre-screen-being-on), by a man with a beard and a microphone. Oddly enough, this man was giving out prizes to 3 lucky ticket-holding individuals. Luckily, I also had a ticket, like everyone else, and thus proved also to be worthy for competition prize extravaganza.
The prize, even more odd, was a 14mp camera. A camera. With video recording one of its many features. I hope I dont have explain how absurd this is.

After this weird first hour, I felt stressed. And decided to have a little nap. Waking up around the time Xavier has drank from the fountain of youth, and now has full use of his legs, thus rendering him an object of female lust and premature ovulation.

I don’t want to give out too much of the plot. In fact, I have already said too much. But it did have a few good things going for it. Firstly, I like origin stories. And I like cheese too. Unfortunately though, when my Gouda is off, I get upset. I hope I’m not losing you here.

Lets try that again. Say for instance you watched and admired a show religiously, and then one day you turn on the tele and find yourself watching ETV naked news on a Saturday night.

Time for instance doesn’t seem to play much of an important role in this movie… theres certain lapses that left me pondering whether or not I have milk in the fridge back home.
The movie itself was far too long to keep me captivated as well (if you want to call it that). I don’t even want to mention all the repetition of dialogue which was appalling and entirely satisfactory for half a deaf person. But a headache for those who have 20/20 hearing.

Magneto was pretty cool in the beginning. I like his sinister and vengeful appearance. Just this one scene of him on the bed turning the coin, stuck with me long enough to vividly recall. But then something happened. And only after watching the final battle scene, which somehow resembles a Peter Pan musical, did I realise its failure as anything other than a marketing attempt to make loads of Dollar.

Meh. I wouldn’t say its worth a watch. But if you have to, or want to, take a pillow. Or don’t. As 87% of people will disagree with me. And I’m looking for controversy.

X-Men 2 still cakes the take.

1. Origin.

This is quite possibly the most important step. As bergies rely quite heavily on a relentless, fabricated backstory – usually involving broken dreams, harsh poverty, and a parentless upbringing. Mastering said story, involves quite a substantial amount of self pity… and/or a wild imagination.
Watching the local news, or observing those that beg/stroll along your local towns’ main road, is usually the best method of inventing a tale that involves murder, ass rape, self mutilation and tough love.

2.  Stench

Once said to be the most notable of signs of a nearby bum, it is the most significant ability to have acquired in ones bumpy inventory – if you ever feel the desire to take life to the streets.
Washing oneself in someone else’s feces is ideal, but I hear a decomposed corpse has quite a klunk to it. I’m not suggesting anything out of the ordinary here.

3.  A trolley

Steal a trolley. For they are there to carry ones shit to and from… anywhere. A trolley is the next step up the ladder of bergie greatness. And is the most important piece of technological machinery to have with you whilst wondering along a traffic-congested street.

4.  Psychology

Most hobo’s have acquired a masters degree in psychology. As not only do they have the astounding ability to work on almost anyones emotions, they can also strike fear in the fearful without a care in the world.
This is by far the most crucial step in becoming a street bergie. If you can piss a person off, or make them feel sorry for you, you have succeeded.. and can therefore collect your degree from your local intersection.

5. Informal Bin Collection AKA making-a-fucking-mess

Being a bum is basically like being a kid… without someone to clean up your mess. Thus bin investigating is, to a bergie, like glass is to a window frame. Thankfully, making a mess isn’t the only sweet thing about this act of vengeance on society. Pouring funky bin juice all over the road is what its all about – as well as neatly leaving everything lying scattered all over the ground for some petty council worker to mop up.
Do this, and you will be on the right track to hobolicious.

6. Guarding

Its like a job, but is totally not. Wack on a lumo vest, and you are good to go. People will trust you with their fucking bank account details.
However – and this is what the average tax-paying civilian fails to understand – not only does this vest entitle a bum to others belongings,  it also gives one the right to tell where one can and cannot park… in a public parking arena. Make sure not to allow parking for those who see through your sound ability.
I need not mention a bums parking advice – which, to put it simply, is far too superior for those with dumb driving licenses. So if you have already passed this ludicrous test of driving inferiority, forget what was learned, and begin defying physics for those who are weak and sympathetic.

7. Cloth

Most essential. Clothe oneself in a mixture of dog vomit and camel shit, strangely tied together using a bit of pocket lint, and one tail of dog. Followed by gently rolling around in leftover bin waste.

8. Make friends

Talk to yourself. Its about as awesome, from a spectators point of view, as large scale genocide.  People will love you for it. They will respect you for it. You will be a philosophical genius amongst petty human for it. Legend.

9. Beg

Begging was handed down from the hand of God. To get an idea of how to beg, spend a few Sundays at your local church. They know how lie, whilst getting into someones pocket, without feeling the slightest bit of sympathy.

10. Alcohol and Brawl

Alcohol was invented for the bergie. Its a crucial part of their society and status. Life will not prevail with out it. A requirement. Not just a self medicator.
For every bottle store, there are 56 bergies. And at least 12 of them are swearing profusely at one another for a sip of crackling. Bare in mind, bergies feel no pain. As upon transition into bergie-knighthood, the main sensory nerve that caters for physical awareness of attack, is cut surgically… using a bottle neck.

11. Suitable Location.

Begging in a desert- not ideal.
Begging in tourist-filled street – ideal.

12. Language

Bergies only know 2 words… “Your ma se poes!!” and “Zy, jyou naai”. So, get rid of those useless nouns and meaningless verbs taught by semi-professional idiots.

So in accordance with sexism and unequal rights, here are a few more kitchen funnies.

• Sleep restriction
• And being air-lifted by anything other than an acute orgasm.

So it wasn’t the greatest of days when I was rudely awoken by my pre-set alarm clock at 3am, only to be forcefully placed into a somewhat rectangular-shaped box, and inconveniently lifted off 5 and a half thousand feet into the frightening abyss – without even a shot of anti-panic, or reincarnation in my inventory.

To get an idea of how terrible this turn of events was, I will attempt to explain using nothing more than a harsh and obscure sentence thats completely unrelated.

Holy mother of Cancer.

Careless, and not even slightly bewildered, anxiety set it and began to manifest into what can only best be described as… an organic nuclear warhead parting from my insides. This was, I’m afraid to say, not constipation. Nor those pesky butterflies. This was pure terror… in the form of absolute and certain death.

I’d much rather have been blundered to death by a rolled up news paper, than recall to memory the excruciating sense of helplessness, whilst aboard this terrifying blimp – that indirectly injected images of burning-to-death whilst free-falling into some ignorant farmers crop circle.

Fortunate enough, no one else was on par with my obvious lack of curiosity with hot air balloons. As if there were, together we could have formed the goddam apocalypse.

Forget Jesus, hope, the sinister afterlife, and this magnificent view all the others were blindly talking about… I was too busy scripting my will using tears and imagination.

Luckily, we crash landed rather comfortably, and I was blessed with a second chance at life – one that I will cautiously admire from here on out.

If you lack this genetic adaptation of pure wisdom (by staying the fuck away from potential death), then id suggest taking a look at the pics below.

Well… heres the first music video from their new “Free Music” EP – which is being launched this Friday at Zula Bar (you better goddamn be there).

Ive also taken on half day contract work. So things just may return to a somewhat regular posting of useless garbage.

Its not that I don’t want to seek out blog stardom anymore… Its just more of a moral dilemma.

And before i lose my train of thought, please don’t forget its Captain Stu’s new EP launch at Zula this Friday.
They giving away their album for free bitches. Free. Thats incredible. Pop goes the weasel.

Right now however, im sitting at a local Mug n Bean, scoping out potential, and observing old people talk about stuff – like death and diapers. My imagination is at peril.

Operation hand shuffle commences at oh eight hundred.

Honest. It feels like I have just stepped foot off of some post-apocalyptic world of mayhem. Not cosy and warm, nor euphoric and pleasant.
A distant hellhole… filled with shallow mines, limbless paytellers, and no reason to get out of bed in the morning – except to refill a trench with my rotting corpse.
My failure to mention – in case it discloses too much information about my current co-ordinates – being sanctioned in a bunker alongside a brightly coloured retard with the words “TARGET” (in lumo writing might I add) flashing boldly above his uncanny self, might just be the reason I am still alive as I type this nonsense.

Curse you evil world. You washed me up onto a reef. You allowed a mild concussion to interfere with a beautiful afternoon. And now you dare to attempt a retraction of my 12 hour slumber?

The cheeseburgers are not happy. Neither is my tummy.

Milk was a good choice.

Its supposed to be wicked hot for fuck sake. Spring! Summer? Flamingo’s, Pina fucking Coladas, the reincarnation of Jesus. I dont know.

And when we are presented with what could possibly be an undoubtably beautiful day – worthy of nothing more than getting a bit crispy near the shoreline – we are instead forced into submission by a wind so penetrating, ones penis is on display to all whilst fighting against it.

Damn you south easter. Damn you.

Cape Town, I still love you like an nerdgasm.

Anyways, during this time, casual observation has made me aware of a new sport/suicide technique making its way across south african roads.

If you are familar with train surfing, then it will be no surprize to you.

I am not quite sure what the participants refer to it as, however, i have been unwillingly involved more than once.

Scenario:

I will driving, following all 10067 rules of the road, when an oncoming figure crossing the road, without haste or fear, will be substancially increasing in size. Upon reaching said pedestrian, who is aware of oncoming car that has the potential to kill, i find myself staring down a cocky smirk.

End of scenario.

Playing chicken with a car? Really? Adrenalin rush or obvious retardation.

I just hit the breaks and swear profusely at the cocky individual who thinks hes just won some award or his life.

What makes it worse. I mean more extreme. Is that its now happening at night. How convenient. Now drivers cannot even see if they are unwillingly participating in a game of stupid with a retard.

How fucking brilliant is that?! Sweet baby Jesus.

I’m 24 years of age – according to the time it takes planet Earth to circulate around that bright radiating object – currently obscuring my 20/20 vision.
I’m without much (asset/responsibility wise).
Yet I still feel the need to break away from the norm.

6 years. 6 solid years… grafting and working my way up the proverbial ladder of stupidity. Its ludicrous.

Fuck that. I’m done.

Thus no more will that pesky snooze button frustrate my slumber. No more will PC-induced migraines cling to my boredom. And no more will I spend days furiously puffing away whilst anxiously cursing at cars moving without haste.

Its gone. Its a thing of the mother fucking past.

For now that is.

And although I know its risky (as I have bills to pay, wenches to please, and a desperate need to locate information online), I’m almost certain this was one of the finest decisions I have ever had to succumb to.

Surf, sea, sun, blog, skate, books, studies, hikes, climbs.

Nothing else really matters. I’m cashing out. Traveling. Living. Retiring.

Unfortunately however, the plot has more holes than a golf course. 19 to be exact.

At one point, during which time is dramatically slowed down to the point of reverse, we witness a female companion tossing our star (Alice) a semi-automatic weapon in order to save the day – and preferably slaughter everything walking with a limp…
However, this was not the case. What followed instead was 15 minutes and 32 seconds (the time it took for the machiney to arrive at its destination) of absolute WTF. .

I can only visualize what the director was thinking…

“Breasts… in slow-motion. For a long time.”

Like an interval.

Action? Thrill? Suspense? Forget it. Its bland and quite ridiculous – like my film reviews.

Fair enough, the undead zombies were pretty slick. Acting all frightening and stuff. Hell, I even fantasized about their fancy mouth extensions when I arrived back home. Alone.

Alas… I would rather have payed R60 and had a bit of a snooze instead. Meh.