Pendulous Testicles

Slide it, like KiyonariTomor­row I shall flaunt my new gait, with pride; brought about by my now pen­du­lous testicles.

I’ve def­i­nitely just earned my wet weather motor­cy­cling badge.

Wel­come to Cape Town, in win­ter; where the roads resem­ble rinks, your bike is sailed, rather than rid­den and it is entirely pos­si­ble to obtain your marine license whilst on wheels.

The closer you are to death, the more alive you feel.”

Cooking with VWs

Old VWs have enriched every facet of my life. They’ve con­tributed mean­ing­fully as trans­port, as social con­nec­tors, as edu­ca­tional instru­ments, as travel enablers and as accom­mo­da­tion, both at events & at the drive-in, to say the least.

Now I have dis­cov­ered a new form in which their cul­ture has come to assist me; as a cook­ing utensil.

My pan is rather warped, you see, which means that it both resists sta­tic place­ment and cooks woe­fully. How­ever, with the nifty addi­tion of a Bee­tle, both of these prob­lems are over­come, styl­ishly & affordably.

This handy tip was brought to you by Extreme Bach­e­lor; your online bach­e­lor­ing guide.

Beetle panholder


Vrooom! Vroooooooom! Vroom! Vrrrroooom! Vvroommm! Vrooooom! Vrooom! Vrooooom! Vroom! Vrrrroooooom! Vvroooooommm! Vrooom! Vrooom! Vrooom! Vroom! Vrrrrooooom! Vvroom­mmm! Vroooomm! Vrooom! Vrooooooooom! Vroom! Vrrrroooom! Vvroommm! Vrrooomm! Vrooom! Vroooooooomm! Vroom! Vrrrroooom! Vvroommm! Vrooom! Vrooom! Vroooooom! Vroom! Vrrrroooom! Vvroommm! Vrooom! Vrooom! Vrooooooooom! Vroom! Vrrrroooom! Vvroommm! Vrooom! Vrooom! Vrooooom! Vroom! Vrrrroooom! Vvroommm! Vrooom! …

That is the min­i­mum num­ber of throt­tle blips needed to get in or out of a park­ing bay, by a Cape Town Hond­naai Tjooner with a kief cut-coil sus­pen­sie & groot poephol xzorst.

What’s cookin’ at Nic’s place, Part 1

Life at Nic’s… :)

May I present, my (mal)nourishment store.

The Cream Soda bot­tle is water bot­tle #3.

Not shown, due to default rea­sons: Mrs. Ball’s chut­ney, salt, sugar, tea & rusks, i.e.: ‘the sta­ple sta­ble’.

…and all of those mil­lions of women spend a for­tune on fancy diets, try­ing to stay thin. Pshaw.

At first, there was Sur­vivor. Then came Big Brother. Now, it’s time for… Extreme Bach­e­lor.

In speaking of manners…

Peo­ple with progeny…

To avoid your spawn suf­fer­ing the dis­plea­sure of being told, oft & repeat­edly, to for­ni­cate thi­ne­selves else­where, please ensure that the first word & phrase that they use, and under­stand, is:

1. Please.
2. Thank you.

To the rest, who have yet to com­pre­hend the mag­ni­tudi­nous impli­ca­tions of these fun­da­men­tal responses, sit and rotate, you rude halfwits.

Preposterous Proportions

SizesI used to think that I was fairly smart, until I walked into a motor­cy­cle store, look­ing for a helmet…

The Hel­met Guy’ pro­filed me from two aisles away, declar­ing, con­fi­dently, that I was def­i­nitely (only) a Medium. Per­haps I shouldn’t have been day­dream­ing so much in class in my time at school…

The par­al­lel conun­drum in this equa­tion was that I had recently bought a set of gloves, for which I’d been fit­ted with a pair labelled as ‘XL’.

It wor­ries me so, in a philo­soph­i­cal man­ner, that I am so dimensionally-irrationally equipped in the bod­ily com­po­nent spectrum.

My jacket is an XXXL, but the para­chutist man­ner in which it envelopes my per­son whilst upon my motorised steed, calms and soothens my upset, greatly.

Given some fur­ther thought, my unmen­tion­ables are a ‘L’, my trousers are always half a foot too short, my shirts are sail-like in their span, in order to fit my neck suit­ably and I seem to wear a shoe size that has escaped the range of seem­ingly all known cobblers.

By all accounts, I should look like The Ele­phant Man.

Hap­pily though, I can report that I look as ‘nor­mal’ as any­one I’ve come across and at least sev­eral peo­ple and two delight­ful canines love me no end.

The State of a Nation…

An unruly Std. 3. pupil has been reported as con­tra­ven­ing the laws of decency in parliament.

Image cour­tesy of

Fear not though, for whilst from the out­side, Nkandla, the nation of the state, and home to the harem, the pub­lic pri­vate pool, sev­eral goats, a num­ber of pigs, some farm ani­mals, illit­er­acy, abject poverty & a clearly back­wards men­tal­ity, may point to the state of the nation as a dire one, it, like its more notable ances­tor, the once-formidable Berghof — now a lovely for­est, reclaimed by forces greater than it; where many ani­mals romp freely, frolic gayly and piss know­ingly — shall return from whence it came; the ground. With time & patience, comes a full bladder.