A Tale of Two Stomachsby Max Barashenkov / 15.12.2010
– An Ode to Montle Moorosi –
A hip fuck strolls down Kloof Streets, his ass is barely covered by cut-off denim shorts, his feet are pointy hooves, his demeanor is unapproachable in its superiority. The fuck is a cultist, a disciple to multiple deities (*1) that govern his existence, define him, chisel him out of the general muck of human scum that festers in the CBD – black taxi drivers, street-side hawkers, white paper-pushers from the high-rise offices, coloured construction workers, black hairdressers spinning endless cornrows, white trash alcoholics, toothless coloured hookers, over-weight government officials buzzing around Parliament and the Court. This here fuck is better than them all, and he knows it, but knowing is not enough, this knowledge needs to be expressed, asserted and solidified in the perception of others (*2). And this is exactly where he is headed to this morning – not to impress the scum, for them he has no care – but to take his rightful place in the pantheon of the equally hip. Under the Mountain, you are not what you eat, you are WHERE you eat (*3), and this V-necked, aborted spawn of the cults of luxury and cool feeds only when surrounded by his own ilk, drinks beer at 11am because he lives on the edge and drops monstrous amounts of cash for vegetarian sandwiches because he wants to live forever. He earns points for being seen breakfasting at the Cape Town scene hotspots and trades them in for blowjobs at the next Assembly gig (*4). His life is sweet, and he, himself, is perfect.
Not so far away, a much less hip cunt hugs the office toilet bowl, parting with the cheap excesses of the previous night. His stomach is treacherously empty due to his firm conviction that the less you eat, the less you spend on booze. The cunt is suffering now, he needs absolution, he craves inner peace, yet the thought of Arnold’s or Lola’s only elicits more gastric bile. He’s been there a few times, why lie, but the experiences were found wanting and the pockets far too empty after. This here cunt identifies more with the paint-stained, overall-clad grunts and lumo-cloaked car-guards, this here cunt is far from awesome and he knows it, crawling across Roeland Street into the sanctuary of Osman’s Take-Aways (*5). Here the working man feeds and the under-paid journalist returns empty Coke bottles for R25 chicken gatsbys (*6), the jewel on the crown of cheap, greasy nourishment. A beast crammed with chips, stale lettuce and barely distinguishable chicken – it’s the size of a baby and the cunt clutches it with appropriate care and affection. The Osman’s gatsby is a one meal-a-day affair, tastes vaguely of Al Qaeda (*7) and is the reverse of childbirth – you start with an infant and end up pregnant (*8). The cunt gurgles, chokes and splutters through this highly unattractive feast and sublimes into nirvana at only halfway. The hangover surrenders to the lethargy of digestion, all notions of doing work are expelled in satisfied burps, the mind spins images of the lower-classes (*9). The same way the hip fuck buys his way into the circles of cool, the cunt vomits and weasels into the underbelly. His life tastes of pavement, and he, himself, is perfect (*10).
Semi-Anthropological Footnotes On The Hate Poem
*1. The God We-Are-Awesome, The Goddess Lomo-photography, The Demi-God Fedora, The Pagan Deity Cocaine, The Multi-headed Hydra Indie Rock, The Upstart God Zef, The Frail God Second Hand Clothing…
*2. A known phenomenon amongst the hip fucks, derived from the simple notions of ‘strength/sanity in numbers’ and the mentality of an undead horde. A hip fuck caught on his own is a sad creature, frail and insecure. Such specimens should be put out of their misery by fire and bayonet.
*3. This theory is applicable to establishments as well as people – with the McDonalds opening at the bottom of Kloof, we will see fast food becoming hip in under three months.
*4. Average exchange rate is – two meals witnessed by at least two other hip fucks = one blowjob; one blowjob = three handjobs; one handjob = one beer; four blowjobs = half an hour of sweaty, drunk sex. Thus to fornicate once a week, a hip fuck needs to eat eight times in the temples of worship along Kloof.
*5. Osman’s, unlike the establishments along Kloof, caters to real human beings who actually require food to survive, instead of image.
*6. Add R3 for a slice of cheese, R3 for an egg, upgrade your gatsby to mutton for an extra R5. Over-oiled samoosas go for R3 and cure rum-hangovers better than gatsbys.
*7. Mahala in no way condones racism or xenophobia, only when it comes to ‘powerful’ races like whites and Asians.
*8. Mahala in no way condones reverse pregnancy.
*9. It is generally from these violent and dirty images that the cunt (and the other cuntish beings working for Mahala) draws his inspiration. Thus the gatsby becomes an intrinsic part of the creative process, which in turn justifies the blatant punt of Osmans.
10. Literary greats will note the ‘clever’ tie between the two paragraphs and are welcome to make snide remarks.