Exhibition II

Exhibition was a garbage pile of my favorite doodles. Besides that, I have posted a myriad of (hypothetical) book, movie, and speech snippets; adverts; campaigns; and memes. This is a collection of those posts; I’ve put them here before the masters Zuckerberg, Dorsey or Gates kick me off their platforms for…being too cool?

A brief description of my social media odyssey
Excerpt from my Quarantine Diary
PSA when they (no one) attempted to cancel me
Excerpt from my book: Puzzling from Them Days
Excerpt from Closest to Hell, the foundational whitepaper of #shortlivesmatter
Preview for my TED Talk: What do women want?
From the biography of my country music persona, Haze Bliksem
SCUM operates in over 0 countries
Love > Group Areas Act
Had to settle for S.C.U.M4 -ZN
Lifestyle gurus reckon we need to plan our days out for maximum efficiency and fulfillment. So I did
Don’t force these people to reach for respect
The fans are insatiable
You wanted Democracy. Democracy is hard
I have petitioned the presidency to add this to the high school syllabus.
(They won the league anyway. Shame, they ugly)
SCUM is the only party to ask why we have another country inside our country
Momma Clause 1/2
Momma Claus 2/2. I’m selling the script for fifty thousand dollars
The price is gone up now but I throw in masks, I guess
Why must adults close their eyes while washing their hair?
Facebook chose instead to become a platform for Straight Choonz and school girl fights
We got Vin Diesel to play Meathead. He thought it was another Fast and the Furious
Sam died (gunshot)
Santa wants his revenge for being banished to the North Pole
There is now; it’s the beginning of my novel The Baby is Crying
There were chancers
People accused this of plagiarism when their whole life is plagiarism
Because I lived in a bad neighborhood
Now I am an emancipated dolphin trainer
“I got a PhD in Keeping it Real and tenure at the School of Hard Knocks.” – Mr. Dr. Prof Naven Naidoo
From A View From Down Here: Too Tall for a Dwarf, Too Short for a Man
Instead of lifting the heavy thing, call your mother and apologize
For fans of Miss Congeniality
Desire to Inspire (before you Expire)
Already being rebooted as a straight-to-Netflix snoozefest
I liked when Aragorn made everyone bow to the hobbits
The End is Naidoo will be completed in 2027. Please don’t torrent it

Consider donating to the artist (encouragement, money, lottery tickets).


Love is a man that lives in a room at the end of an extensive corridor in the house of your being.
In an unfamiliar place, you open a long-closed door and step into a pitch-black room.

The figure kneeling against the wall gets up.
His eyes adjust to the light. He recognizes his visitor. He shouts. He begs you to leave.

Someone laughs.
A hoarse voice, a bitter chuckle.
Chained likewise to the wall on the right is another man.
His intense eyes, his bared teeth, his proud stand.
You know him. His name is Rage.
He declares, “It’s none or all of us! Choose!”

“How do I get you out of here?” you ask Love.
He responds, “Please don’t. Leave!”

A new voice from the left admits, “There’s a key behind you.”
The third man called Sorrow makes an effort to look away from the light you let in.
Arms around his knees, he sits against the wall, staring at the floor.

You look back at a key hanging beside the entrance.
Your eyes follow the single chain binding all three captives.
You notice the one lock keeping them all trapped here.

You look at each of the three men in turn.
They all share the same face.

They all have your face.

How To Make Friends

Imagine it’s 4pm and you receive your daily call from Ma. She’s gonna ask how you are, when you’re getting married, and tell you the geyser at home is broken. You’re not prepared to feign sympathy, or appear optimistic. You’ve just spent the whole day crying in bed because the last selfie you posted on Facebook got just 4 likes and one sad reaction. If only there was someone who could answer the call in your place.

Sounds like you need a friend.

Fortunately I’ve mastered the art of friendship. I have like, 5 friends. 12 if you count people online.

Scientists claim you need to possess attributes such as “empathy” and “charisma” to accquire friends. That’s hard (impossible) for you to get now (at 27 with your last two pairs of clean socks, and crippling anxiety).

So, just follow these simple steps to get all the friends:

1. Do 35 pushups

If you can only manage 34, you’re doomed.

2. Know political buzzwords like “communism” and “lady drivers”

3. Owe people money

They will call, message and look for you all the time!

4. Staple your payslip to your shirt before you go out

Potential friends need to know you can afford to buy quinoa from Woolworths.

5. Have a gun, or be able to make a fake gun with your fingers in case it goes down

Future friends need to feel safe and protected around you.

6. Carry Benylin Cough SyrupTM with you wherever you go

If someone has a cough, guess what? You’re the hero.

7. Whisper “Voldemort was the real hero” into the ear of everyone you meet

8. Go to a gym and lift heavy things

Fellow gym enthusiasts will be forced to concede to your burn and pump. It’s nature, Bro.

9. Slay the dragon terrorizing the village folk

10. Rap

11. Learn hypnosis

Who can resist finding you charming and relateable when they’re under your total control?

12. Read a person’s blog post, ask for their banking details and send them 200 bucks with the reference “You are really tall”

We are now friends. Thanks.


“The purpose of art is washing the dust of daily life off our souls.”
– Some guy named Picasso

You peasants won’t understand art. I’m not an artist but I once drank champagne in a bath tub so I have class. You see, my most recent acquisition is a Note 5. It’s a great smartphone, Samsung. I don’t even need friends or family anymore. The precision of the stylus combined with my own inner turmoil unleashed a fury of mediocre creative productions.

Whenever inspiration hit me, instead of any other worthwhile feeling, I would pop out the stylus and open up SNote. When I felt sad, I drew. When I was hungry, I drew. When I lost my tweezer, I cried then I drew.

What follows are a few of my masterpieces. Brace yourself. You may not be accustomed to beholding such vision and insight. Before proceeding, please open your mind, and drop your standard for what a masterpiece should be.

This is pretty cute:


This has something to do with the high price of fuel, I’m sure:


Nature is a downer:


This is a funny joke. Laugh:


Love is a magical thing:




Beautiful things are meant to take your breath away:


This is something:


Accurate schematic of female physiology based on my own experience:


Most advice is ironically unhelpful:


Put this up on your wall:


(Mind blown)

Take a second to catch your breath.

If you’re aroused, don’t be ashamed – we all are.

All of these are available as autographed hardcopies for R5000 excluding VAT and delivery.


This is one I call “Cellmate”:

A product of my conversion to male feminism:

Get ice cream in all the flavors you’re used to:


Career Ending Moves: CEM

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I’ve been employed for nigh two years now (13 or 444 depending on which timeline you’re following). One thing is for sure, wherever you work, whatever you do, whoever it’s for, however questionable the legality, it’s a horrid, soul-sapping experience. You’re better off lounging at your parent’s place with their abundantly-stocked fridge at your disposal, eating them out of house and home like they expected you to. You let your parents down, Man. They anticipated a failure but look at you, you’re not even a father yet. So, Working Class Man, GDP Contributor – you need a way out, don’t you? You can’t possibly spend another day being productive! How can you tolerate the shame of being punctual and responsible and fully-clothed? Your 12-year-old self would beat you up if they saw how great you are with a stapler and email. Look in the mirror, look what you’ve become! You’re contributing to team success. You have excellent peer relations. You haven’t been chastised by HR once. You’re even gonna have that presentation ready for Thursday’s meeting. It’s a damn disgrace. Another day of making a difference in the world is going to kill you.

Told you
Told you

Time to exit gracefully. Allow me to introduce you to CEM: Career Ending Moves. A careful application of a combination of these can unburden you from the merciless reality of being an upstanding member of society. Never again will you be shackled and obligated to answer a telephone or open Microsoft Word on purpose. Toss that unflattering uniform and ID card out the window today!

"Work for who?" - Queen Elizabeth
“Work for who?” – Queen Elizabeth

CEM #1:

If anybody asks for the date that your project will be completed on, give them the finger and reply, “The first”.

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CEM #2:

Walk around the office barefoot. If they allow that, walk around with shoes. They can’t control you, Malcolm X.

CEM #3:

Tell your boss, “Nice mammory glands”, if she’s a her. Mix it up with a wink if your boss is a guy. (Hint: If he responds to the wink positively, resign)

CEM #4:

Wear an offensive T-shirt on a non-casual Friday. Something really bad like “This is my kidnapping shirt” or “Chloroform Everyday” or “One Direction”.

CEM #5:

Come to work covered in blood.

CEM #6:

Listen to the upbeat Taylor Swift songs loud enough for Eric, who sits next to you, to hear and be appalled.

CEM #7:

Clip your nails at the desk where you’re all singing Happy Birthday to Sandra, the lady whose husband just left her days before her birthday.

CEM #8:

Mention how work is gay and only enjoyed by Nigerians and women. (The bonus points here are for being racist, sexist, xenophobic and homophobic in just 10 words!)

CEM #10:

Get drunk and show up at your boss’ house asking for leave for tomorrow.

BONUS (For Software Developers):

CEM #11:

Use whatever bullshit subversion client your team uses to log onto your source code repository and delete a folder called “trunk”.  Ignore any warnings, Maverick.

CEM #12:

Log onto the most important production database server. Don’t punk out – people are watching. Open a new query to the biggest database. Type in “BEGIN TRAN”, execute the query and take a coffee break. YOLO.

There you go. You’re welcome. Come relax in the leisure zone, a paradise of pure laziness. It must feel like how Mandela felt after his long stay on Robben Island. Liberty, can you taste it? Welcome to unemployment, to care-free days of waking up at 11AM. To constantly having to borrow money from your parents, and giving excuses to your friends because you can’t afford that trip to see Ed Sheeran live. Congratulations on now having time to play cricket with school teachers while there’s still daylight, and doing the community service you incurred after being convicted of robbing an old woman of her pension, because you’re strapped for cash like all the time now. Every single day you, Captain America, will have the freedom to finally try and play the guitar, experiment with getting high on bath salts, and put up with various family members trying to fix you a job. Hey, you know better than to fall into that trap again.

PRO TIP: When people ask what you do for a living now there’s so many lies you can tell; you’re an actuary, you cameo’d on The Big Bang Theory, you’re busy finishing your second degree in financial quantum mechanics, you’re involved in studying mind control in dolphins, you felt it’s time for a break after the Nobel Prize scoop – you can be anything. Be proud of yourself.

I Promised I Would Blog About Murder

Right, so – murder. Murder murder murder. Bad thing that, murder. The Senate assassinated Caesar back in the day because they just couldn’t handle how smooth he was at conquering and stuff. Kind of like how you’re jealous of my well-formed sentences in that secret love letter I wrote to Jojo. Do you want to kill me then? Of course not. We aren’t savages.


The question does arise however; how do you handle the instinct to kill? That killer impulse, the primitive blood lust. Everyday it’s gnawing on the inside of you, desperately searching to be free, to be unleashed on the people who deserve it, who deserve your brutal wrath. Or not. You could be clean, good and wholesome. Good luck with that.


In old times, not last week or something, I’m talking centuries ago, people could just die on any day. Life expectancy was like 42 or something in the Middle Ages. That could be historically inaccurate but how do I know you’re a history teacher? So you could just wake up on your birthday or Tuesday and die. And because you were expecting to die in a barn or at the river at anytime, murder was more commonly practiced. You had a problem with grandma, you took her out, with a sword even. Some guy insulted your upbringing in the swamp, you handled that situation honorably with an axe at sundown.

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Wars were fought every second month, and this lot of people intentionally murdered another lot of people, often over some crops, a beautiful princess, or for Birmingham. Men were conditioned to kill. They desired to grow up and be shot in head with an arrow for the King or Duke or Pope or Turkey. These were the guys that got all the chicks. Interestingly enough, they all died fighting in vain before reproducing. This resulted in less than optimal breeding partners; like accountants, engineers and sociology majors, being your great grandparents. Their weak genes being passed on explains your unglamorous demeanor today (sorry).

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Peasants were slightly oversensitive and prone to violence

All people, men especially, are born with an insatiable thirst for glory on the battlefield. Our entire civilization is built on the murder of people who were stubbornly standing in the way of the ideals and mechanisms that shaped our current mediocre society. We showed the hippies. Something in our jeans genes compels us to be warriors. In the modern context, there exists no formal way to appease that appetite. Naturally, and we are especially great at this, we have discovered some discount substitutes.


Ever since you were born by accident, you’ve been in competition with everyone around you. Everyone in school wants to beat you up. We’re all so perversely competitive all the time. There’s no war, no fight for survival, so – what do we have instead? People try to outdo each other in Pokemon trivia, playing ping pong at church and repairing telephones. Everyday stuff.

School fights have evovled
School fights have evolved

There exists an infernal disco in our minds at most times. Other times it’s a silent, brooding anger. Sometimes it bubbles over into an outburst at your mother over a lost sock. Sometimes you supplement with Austrian torture porn or violent video games. Or that one Manson song in your playlist surrounded by all the other usual boy band offerings. It’s the reason why head shots in Battlefield are so satisfying.

Atleast you can shoot Unicorns with a bazooka on Playstation

In fact, all modern technology is the bastard child of military efforts to discover new ways to kill each other. How many ways can you kill a man with a microwave? Think about it. It’s a death machine.

After a while, all the milk-tossing isn’t enough, the persistent internal screaming gets too loud, and Miriam loses it. Miriam surrenders to the barbarism, having been conditioned all her life by The Vampire Diaries to have absolutely zero respect for the sanctity of life, she runs you over with her 2011 Toyota Corolla. Murder, Son. It happens. Because killers are what we are by nature, and everyday it’s becoming less mainstream to do it, to kill. Civilization has left so few people to massacre and even fewer excuses to dismember them recreationally. But don’t do it.

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No matter how bored/great-with-nunchuks you are. If TV teaches us anything, it’s that, if you do a murder, Horatio or The Mentalist will catch you in next week’s episode.


Are You Capable Of Crippling Established Authority?



Do you have what it takes to join an elite, underground movement?
To expose the diabolical plot perpetrated by corrupt government and formal religion?
To unsuppress human history and enlighten mankind?
To answer a fourth question?

If your answer is yes to all the above, then grab the nearest pencil and take the unofficial Illuminati Personality Test.

Tally up your choices and compare them at the end.

[DISCLAIMER] The views expressed in this questionnaire do not reflect those of the immense, criminal organization known as The Illuminati, President Barack Obama or any other secret member including Barney The Dinosaur.

1. What is your questionable gender?

A. Boy
B. Girl
C. You refused to be defined by gender/Pyrofox

2. I don’t care, but how are you feeling today?

A. Super-fantastic
B. Totally-tripping, Son
C. Somewhat-hungry
D. What you said?
E. Feelings are for girls

3. What do you pretend to do for a living besides touch teaspoons?

A. Do hairstyles
D. Dog walker
E. Radish farmer
F. Third wheel

4. Is Spiderman 2 the best superhero movie ever?

A. Yes
B. Yes
C. Both a and b
D. Magic Mike

5. The USA is..

A. The standard for modern civilization
B. #Swag, Hater
C. An imperialistic, yankee pig-dog

6. Catholics are..

A. Secretly the lost White Ninja Clan
B. One of the reasons we have to tie shoelaces
C. Nice people that give you coke for playing table tennis in short pants
D. Seriously considering Protestantism

7. It’s okay to BBM…

A. In Sunday School
B. While drowning
C. After visiting Grandpa at the cemetery
D. Under a table during an earthquake
E. Never. You’re not retarded

8. How long before you give up a secret?

A. Not even after brutal torture by candlelight
B. Soon after being given a box of Smarties
C. Anytime, for a chance to touch my knee
D. It depends on the amount of mulberry leaves you smoke (3 or 4)

9. Who do you think belonged to the fictional (wink) super-secret society, The Illuminati?

A. The Buddha
B. One of the twelves disciples and Cleopatra
C. One Direction ft. Beyonce
D. The Beatles, Tim Cook and that tall guy on How I Met Your Mother
E. Lady Gaga (ahem), your friend Denver, Tia and Tamera
F. The 4th grade class at St Anne’s, the entire cast of Desperate Housewives and some girl selling shoes

10. In High School you were voted…

A. Most likely to fall down stairs
B. Most likely to continue suffering with eczema
C. Least likely to be content with how your trousers set on your shoes
D. Most capable of safeguarding a secret organization’s ambitious efforts to overthrow all forms of government

11. The ship is sinking, who should be the first to be evacuated?

A. Woman and children
B. Bros before hoes
C. People who paid their TV licence
D. Librarians because they do so quietly
E. You, a filthy rich megalomaniac via an exclusive, secret, high-tech lifeboat

12. What motivates you?

A. An insatiable lust for power
B. You really want to know what dolphin tastes like
C. Avoiding eye contact with a pretty girl
D. A desire to see your Harry Potter fan-fiction became a reality
E. Cabbage


Compare your results:

Mostly As – You cannot join the Illuminati. Don’t even ask.

Mostly Bs – Seriously, you cannot join the Illuminati.

Mostly Cs – I assume you’re pretty good at Candy Crush. Keep it that way.

Mostly Ds – Have you tried playing Volleyball instead?

Mostly Es and Fs – Look into the light for me please…

You didn't see anything.
You didn’t see anything.

Open Source Inspiration

I don’t know if posting the source code to a blog makes it open source but probably not. Anyway, I run this program, first thing, every morning to help keep me motivated. Maybe it’ll help you, Lost_Nun87. By all means, modify Betrayal to suit your lack of needs. It’s free until you execute the thing, which is when you get Heartbleed – actual heart bleed.

PLOT TWIST: WordPress is acting a little bit vegetarian and not displaying stuff properly. The source code only renders well in Internet Explorer. Pray for me.
It’s also on pastebin in all it’s syntactic, indented glory so there.

using System;
using System.Collections.Generic;
using System.Text;
using System.Threading;
using System.Collections;

namespace Betrayal
     Ground-breaking SUPERCLASS,
     which is what we would call it,
     if that wasn't theoretical heresy
    public class Betrayal
        /*properties and stuff*/
        public string peasantsName { get; set; }
        public string finalWords { get; set; }
        private readonly List<string> yourBetrayals;
        private static Random rnd;

        /*constructor, that totally works, Son*/
        public Betrayal(string peasantsName)
            this.peasantsName = peasantsName;
            this.yourBetrayals = new List<string>(new string[]{"Puzzling from them days.",
             "Aim low.",
             "Nobody cares about your new shoes.",
             "You have no idea what you're doing.",
             "Oh, the Shame.",
             "That's why your father left.",
             "God loves you. I don't.",
             "Do you even DJ?",
             "No biscuits for you.",
             "All your pot plants will die.",
             "That dream you have is lame.",
             "People make fun of you on BBM.",
             "Your mother's maiden name."
            });  //all the fun betrayals
            rnd = new Random();

        /*very lazy methods*/
        public override string ToString()
            return "Everyday is a new betrayal, " + this.peasantsName;

        public void PersonalizedBetrayal()
            this.finalWords = (string)yourBetrayals[rnd.Next(yourBetrayals.Count)]; //random one to surprise and horrify you


    class DailyMotivation //what a total slave class
        static void UninspiringTimeWaster()
            Console.Out.Write("Enter your stupid name: "); //fairly well-mannered user prompt/demand
            string yourPeasantName = Console.In.ReadLine();

            Betrayal dailyBetrayal = new Betrayal(yourPeasantName); //some other things that are not your business

            Console.Out.WriteLine("\n{0}.\n", dailyBetrayal); //ta-da!

            for (int i = 0; i < 3; i++) //ominous silence

            dailyBetrayal.PersonalizedBetrayal(); //are you even excited?

            Console.Out.WriteLine("\n\n{0} \n", dailyBetrayal.finalWords); //disappointing conclusion

            Console.Out.WriteLine("\nEnter R for another betrayal (standard SMS rates apply)");
            Console.Out.Write("Or Enter to leave, Girly-man: "); //nondiscriminatory taunt
            char r = Convert.ToChar(Console.In.Read());

            if (r.ToString().Equals("r", StringComparison.OrdinalIgnoreCase))
                Console.ReadLine(); //polishing the filthy buffer
                Console.Clear(); //nothing to see here
                DailyMotivation.UninspiringTimeWaster(); //deja vu
                Environment.Exit(0); //Run!

        /* seriously underrated Main method, that does all the work for zero recognition */
        static void Main(string[] args)
            DailyMotivation.UninspiringTimeWaster(); //take it easy, breathe


Here’s a sample run:

Simply enter your peasant name begrudgingly
Simply enter your peasant name begrudgingly

Enjoy and remember to not break the stapler.

Torque Is Cheap

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Do you even Speed and Sound?

An Indian guy and cars; a love that dare not speak it’s name. Don’t be startled to find one of them unashamedly naked, hugging the hood of a RXI at some point during the day. They love it that much. Small wonder cars are given women’s names. Like a woman, motor vehicles spark the interest of a man primarily because of what’s under the hood.


Confession time: I know as much about cars as Jacob Zuma knows about self-control. I only know what a Lamborghini is because I drank too many of them on fire once, and consequently spent the entire evening becoming intimately familiar with my bathroom’s plumbing.

A guy once said that it’s all about big tires and monster bass (I’m not sure how fishing is related, we’ll see). I concluded that he was still upset about his dad leaving years ago, or is sensitive about his underrated adam’s apple. Either way, poor fellow’s clearly compensating for something. “Mid ranges,” someone else said. “I’ve got mid ranges”. Friend that I am, I was quick to reassure him that if he works hard enough, he could afford the high ranges someday.

Some of the excitement stems from racing. Yes, racing – drag racing; staying up late at night to get into fights with your childhood friends. Not to be confused with racing in drag. This activity usually includes prescription medication, pregnancy scares and feeling cold in a parking lot. Honestly, I think this habit is largely a consequence of 2 Fast 2 Furious being pirated so successfully.


Status comes with what sort of car you make smoke with at the traffic light. Yet another rigid system of symbolism. For example, a stainless steel exhaust pipe indicates to potential mates that you’re still fertile. Tinted windows lets people know that money hasn’t changed you, and you still remember where you come from. Twelve inch sub-woofers are a statement to the world that you just qualified for a housing bond.


There’s also the pleasure of the mechanical parts themselves. Gears and axles and things. People love getting marinated in grease to use a spanner to violate the undercarriage of their 2009 Ford Focus. Who isn’t wooed by shiny rims that blind all the neighborhood children as you drive past them? Not me.


Despite an understandable lack of knowledge or interest, you can still totally embrace the whole “ride or die” culture. Please feel free to say you have haters. And play Rick Ross loud enough to give a nun hepatitis. Rev the pedal things all you want outside the primary school, go ahead.

A car appeals to me in two or three ways. One is looks. Another is the common practical application. When a cool person mentions that some Volkswagen or something goes zero to one hundred in six seconds, that means diddly squat to me. Unless, by zero you mean my house, and by one hundred you mean the bar, then that’s a fantastic car right there. A third reason would be that the boot comes in particularly handy when you have to do a murder.


How do you relate in a community obsessed with spinning wheel caps and noise pollution? There are some techniques, so let’s get to that, Son.

How to totally know cabs:

1. Comment with, “Nice tires”.

People will never dispute this. It’s indisputable. It sounds sincere enough to be a great lie. You have no idea what you’re talking about but they falsely assume you’re aware of their need for safety, so yeah.

2. Dress to Depress.

The clutch and accelerator, I mean. At the same time, so that it makes that VROOM sound; to drown out the voice of the guy selling pegs at the intersection. 80% of the talk, is the walk. Your outfit should definitely consist of Puma shoes, bootlegged Levi’s and three liters of maximum-hold gel for your mohawk.

3. Drop an obscure reference to nitrous oxide here and there.

Mention how everything is better with chrome pipes or rims (not sure which one), and never give the audience a chance to disagree. Nod, point and complain about the high cost of brake pads and annual services.

4. Ramble:

“Hey but if the cam belt’s not properly lubricated and the clutch plate slips, that’s a headache, am I right? Because that wont agree one bit with the reverse shaft cylinders in the carburetor, and you all know that’s expensive and alotta work for mechanics. Those guys are never at home when you need them. This one time this kêrel gave me a speeding fine just before the valves got worn because the exhaust was burning, y’know I rev hard. This one ou tried to dice with a 325 so I had to double-clutch right…”

Now, the key here is to talk fast and laugh whenever you lie about breaking the traffic laws, as if you do this all the time. Throw in some other familiar terms like drifting, Jetta and oil-change to complete the deception.

5. Don’t just suicide, Carbon-Monoxide.

For legal reasons, I can’t elaborate on this one. Since it references that awkward moment when your girlfriend left you for me (surprise, surprise), and all your dreams collapsed.

6. Get arrested for driving shirtless.

This is the equivalent to winning a Nobel Prize. Everyone will believe anything you say about muffler kits and tuning chips after this.

7. Change a tire ONCE.

Never underestimate the magnitude of the opportunity to learn here. I did this once and boy, did I learn that day. I found out where the wheels are. I found out what a jack is (not that). And I finally discovered what rims look like.

8. It’s all about SOUND, mostly.

What’s a pimp wagon without some dynamite speaker-bass-amplifier machines? Familiarize yourself with the brands that make the speakers and cables and stuff. Like Deaf Leopard, eDrum Bleeders, Telefunky, Kennywood, Sonny and Gransdeaf. Other useful terms to impress are boot-lining, six-by-nines, tweeters, equalizers and twelve-inch-subs. Pretend to get carried away by how impressed you are by the balance between bass and treble (try and find out what bass and treble are, I don’t know).

The music is malevolently split into two categories: No Words and Few Words. House Music, some of it’s called. Ironic that it isn’t limited to being played at home. Most of the lyrics sound similar to the boot rattling, so listen carefully. There’s Hip Hop sometimes too. You’ll know it’s on when you have an urge to mug someone or disrespect a woman. On rare occasions, someone plays UB40. Run, Son.

9. Recommend dropping the suspension

A suspension is like your standards in women, the lower the better.

10. Wash the car YOURSELF

The temptation is there to support Manny’s Car Wash but resist the laziness. Auto valet is for pansies. You’re a MAN! Using the garden hose uses three times the water and floods the driveway, hell yeah! Trust me, all the neighborhood girls will be so impressed as you show off your skills with a sponge, bucket and dashboard polish. Watch them swoon as you unroll the 20 meter extension cord to use the vacuum cleaner on the seats.

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Truth be told, my irreverence for motor vehicles makes me a liability on the road. Though an obligatory car purchase is looming, and I’ll be forced to become auto-savvy soon. Until then, to hell with your GTI.

Everyday is a new betrayal
Everyday is a new betrayal

PS. Your boot spoiler is ugly.

Letters From The Front: Roach Wars AD 2024

Aren't you supposed to be killing things?
Aren’t you supposed to be killing things?

Dearest Suzanne (?),

I’m afraid this may be my last letter to you. You may have noticed how sparse correspondence has become. We have begun using pen ink for hydration, and to draw moustaches on the people on the cover of our last issue of People magazine. Soon, it will end (this or the war, I cannot be sure). Even now we are fully engaged with the enemy on the front line. Oh, I’d hate to taint your sweet ears with talk of the violence. I can only say that I have one clean sock left. That alone speaks volumes, My Dove.

War changes a man. I have witnessed the horror firsthand. Before my eyes, men have soiled themselves in fear and succumbed to depravity and madness, and that was only during breakfast. No matter how tough a soldier’s exterior, he quivers and squeals like a little girl at the sight of a Roach. Everyday is a new betrayal.

Roachkind force us to become monsters to draw some feint hope of victory. It’s them or us. And if you weren’t part of the world we die to defend, I would gladly forsake my post at the vanguard. In fact, I tried. They shouted at me.

Their cowardly attempts at assassination have proven fruitless. Each night their soldiers attempt to breach our camp and slay the commanding officers in their sleep. I show them no mercy, My Love. Curse my aptitude at insecticide! I am a murderer! I wield death! My hands are stained with the blood of hundreds of their kind. To be honest, they don’t really have blood – just some icky white thing similar to that brand of toothpaste you’re so fond of (I’m sorry if I’ve spoiled toothpaste for you, My Dear). My soul is on fire with rage and aggression and hatred. Some of the men say that’s a fever but I took some aloe vera.

I can decapitate an entire squadron of roaches with a war slipper and yet, I cannot even sleep alone because of the nightmares. It’s become so bad that our chief arms sponsor – Adidas – have begun to ration the truffle butter. Must we eat our toast with margarine like savages?!

I long to feel the warmth of your hands in mine again. To hear your sweet voice remind me I’m late in the mornings. To awkwardly gaze at your lovely face when I mistakenly press Video Call on Hangouts for Android. How is my boy, our son? He must be getting taller each day. Thank the heavens he has your genes too. Never tell him what I do, My Angel. Lie to our child. Oh the lies! Make him believe his father was an honest, hard-working man. Tell him I drive a Corrolla and install water-features for a living. Never ever tell him the truth; that I’m actually a rocket scientist turned war hero. The shame.

Truth be told, I am afraid to come home after this experience. War has left me a hollow, broken man. Would you even love me like you did before? This has nothing to do with the ridiculous rumor that I lost our wedding ring gambling for a pair of Yeezys.

Hush, save your tears, My Sweet! We can only hope for the best. For victory and peace, at last. I promise to kill them all. The brown ones, the flying ones, the stupid ones that run in your direction even. Stay strong, My Oasis.

Yours in Love and Pesticide

PS: I’ve attached a photo of myself holding a shovel to keep you warm at night.