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Happy New Year, bitches!

Happy New Year, bitches!

by Montle Moorosi / 31.12.2009

Wooo! It’s always so hard to start a sentence with a sound effect or some sort of sarcasm and a torrent of exclamation points without sounding like a Yo-TV presenter, but I’m going to try it because when I was young I really wanted to be a K-TV presenter, so here it goes: Wooo!!! 2009 has been a wild year, Oh my god! So much drama I want to go down on a minor and get myself arrested and sent to prison so I can get sodomised daily by scarred up men in orange pyjamas who want to teach me a lesson!

First of all 2009 was a good year for Mahala because by some miraculous work of God they finally got some readership going after about a year or so of banal Cape Town haterade induced McFlurrys of, “I cant afford to go to Camps Bay, I’m a surfer from Franschoek,” shit and stuff about how Julius Malema is a member of the Free Masons and has links to Al Qaeda. And lets not forget the silly name Mahala clearly thought up by a white guy trying to be “down” because his parents own a salvation army and claim to have been swingers with Peter Mokaba back in the 80s. So congratulations Andy Davis! You did it you dirty little Yemenite. We love you very much and thank you for the free lunches and drinks, while you struggle to pay for your daughter’s diapers and your wife’s low blood pressure medication.

Mahala is a fags to bitches story because the whole organisation is run like the distribution of Zola’s illegitimate children, all over the country. Roger Young and Yusuf Laher cover Durban with a relentless diligence that is a reminder of how old they are and have some shit called, “experience” and, “responsibility”… but a lot of experience from the number of stories I hear from other war veterans. “Roger used to date Kerry McGregor”, “Yusuf used to be a member of Pagad while he worked at Blunt Magazine,” just to drop a few examples. I got the surreal and uncanny opportunity to work with Roger Young this year to cover Spring Break, VanFokkingTasties at Sun City and to this day I’m still slightly traumatised yet delighted by the sight of a fat white man in his boxers making love to a lamb shank. He once sent me a really long and boring e-mail I skimmed over about how it wasn’t right to make fun of how fat Tumi (from Tumi and the Volume) is and that it wasn’t, “conducive to healthy music and journalism.” What a fag. Yusuf I don’t really know, but he sounds like someone you shouldn’t trust if you have a light bulb, a straw and a car radio lying around somewhere.

Cape Town? Brandon Edmonds? Sean O Toole? Fuck them, they’re already famous so I’m not going to say their names anymore until somebody sends me a cheque. You have no idea how poor I am and 2009 was the year of drinking champagne on beer money, buying kilograms of cocaine with R50 for a bankie of weed. Same as every other year, I guess. The Loerie awards were in Cape Town this year, just another excuse for quasi-creative corporate people in Cape Town and Johannesburg to keep what they’ve always been doing best, which is getting fucked up and talking about themselves, their exhibitions and going to London instead of picketing and rioting about why Montle Moorosi is not getting an award even though he’s not in the morosely gay and exciting world of advertising.

JR Onyangunga

Hiring Justin McGee, Jean Rene Onyangunga to work with me also wasn’t such a bad idea. I hate to sleep on my stomach but it was a brilliant idea that Andy agreed with because he’s so afraid of me and knows that it’s best not to argue with me because I’m the type of guy who would back slap him in front of his little daughter and send her to the store to buy me a loose cigarette and a strawberry Fiesta. The only worthwhile comparison I can think of that explains the impact the three of us (The Good Time Mafias) has had on Johannesburg is the same as Rommel’s storm through Africa’s deserts or Manto Tshabalala at a Cool Running’s student night. “We are not a collective! We’re a gang!” was one of our many slogans, right along with, “I don’t cry, I drink”.

McGee

The death threats, the fuck you’s and the sit downs at The Loft on 7th Melville with party promoters saying things like, “we’re a brand, and you guys are ruining it.” And, “why do you guys always focus on the negative stuff? Why are you dissing my customers, dawg? Yo shit ain’t right, dawg?” This is DJ Dimples talking who is also the head man at Pop Bottles, about two weeks after the article was published. That was a brilliant day. Before we met up with Dimples, we sat down for pizzas with Andy and pigged out on his tab and made sure his daughter went without shoes to school next year.

I was looking forward to a fight and I even found a Mobb Deep CD in the car, but when we got to the meeting all we got was a whole sack of bureaucracy… such an anticlimax but I’m glad because I’m down with violence these days, especially black on black violence. At that moment I was baying for promoter blood… they claimed they never made any threats and I made them apologise to my girlfriend just before she took a shit on their intelligence for not understanding the concept of social commentary and journalism. There was no war and Napoleon got to take his small penis home still feeling like a champ for standing his ground despite the tiny size of our publication and that pure work speaks for itself instead of relying on networks, nepotism and a conglomerate type mentality. Most believe that by not being 100 percent positive and pro development, that writers are being, “haters” or, “negative for negative’s sake” and thus have a jealous agenda. This mentality is what actually stunts the South African creative industries because we just want to suck each other’s dicks all the time and, my friend, that incest only leads to kids with really huge foreheads who drool and eat their own poo.

Napoleon was just kak happy to have friends who are also work mates, fellow gang members and most importantly family. The Good Time Mafias. As the year ends Justin and Jean Rene have both returned to Durban where Justin has become a pit crew member for his dad’s racing team and taking photo’s for Loslyf while Jean Rene has found a lucrative career working for a German art project taking pictures of Durban’s beautiful landscapes and dysfunctional Indian families peroxiding their hair at the beach, while I’m still in the PPC cement city and still broke and really, finally, after so many years of fighting the devil which is a 9-5 job. People if Andy doesn’t give me a raise then its the end of my writing for websites and I’m either going to work at Heat or pull my dusty chemical engineering degree and get so rich I commit suicide.

Good Times Mafia

So much drama, fun, pain and abuse was inflicted on ourselves and others this past year that the line between victim and victimiser was shattered so finely it would cut the bristles of your broom when trying to even clean it up. The Irish style drinking which led to us fighting amongst each other, the drug dealers who made us wait forever and brewed nothing but time to bicker amongst ourselves while taking awesome pictures and neglecting my girlfriend who silently sulked in the passenger seat, but then once the coke got there it was all good again. Then we stole stuff together, vomited together, made fun of people together, fell all over people’s art exhibitions together. But I got arrested alone and that was a bitch. And even with all this notoriety and, “street cred” none of us got any groupies, all we got was mild LSD tabs, watered down draught beers and I got the nickname, Chris Brown.

I disappeared for a month which turned out to be the most significant month of my life. As I said, we never got any groupies despite our little fart of notoriety but now I’m more concerned about this interview on the late news about how plastic surgery is not affordable for the lower and middle classes (duh) and man boobs. What ever happened to a roof over your head a hot meal and a bag of weed, if you’re lucky, when you’re poor. Then the interviewer says, “and these are African men who want surgery? Are you serious?” Then the black plastic surgeon who looks like a young Tito Mboweni says, “I see a lot of men who get promoted to higher positions; they want to get stomach tucks and to fix their man boobs”. Then the white lady who’s also a plastic surgeon says “I think African masculinity is liberating.”

Despite the Mahala staff not getting much pussy with the exception of Andy Davis because he’s married, everyone else in 2009 was slapping skins with the fervour of a tribal savage. Silvio Berlusconi had sex with over 500 prostitutes and he doesn’t have Aids, another point to prove my theory right that rich white people in Government have the cure for Aids (except for Judge Cameron). And fucking finally, our “nigga” Tiger Woods admitted he was black by showing us how deep his lust for white women is. But still though his saga is kind of boring, I mean come on dude! He didn’t even kill at least one of them! He aint no O.J!

2010 is the year of the penis enlargement.

What’s happening in Limpopo? Bloemfontein? Polokwane? People, reach out to me and let’s have fun and travel because as much as I love Johannesburg this shit of getting ball sweat on my fingers is repetitive. If I have to see another Ama Kip Kip t-shirt, silver high top Nikes, Mohawks, pink Keffiyah scarves and an iPod blasting Kanye West, I’m going to masturbate with a handful of sandpaper. Weaves? What’s up with weaves this year? Stop killing the horses and stealing pubes from Russian and Brazilian children just because Rihanna and Beyonce did it. 2010 should be not just a year of commerce for us, but a year for compassion and progressive thinking. And white girls didn’t get off scott-free this year from fashion faux pas either, with their inexplicable head thongs head string hair elastic things. What the fuck? A string on your head? Why? The soup kitchen look is very jarring in combination with those tight leggings showing off your camel toe which actually looks like an Elephant toe which I think I kind of like, on second thoughts.

Done!

Music was generally good, especially for South African house which made me feel really proud of South Africa after such a long vacuum of unoriginal club music since kwaito came out. Durban came full force like they did last year with super wet releases from Tira, Lvovo, DJ Chynaman and DJ Twitty… Its 1:50 am right now, the morning of New years eve and I just saw something on the news during the sports segment about a soccer game played by elephants in Nepal, “its a huge attraction for locals and tourists” they say and then they said: “Unlike South Africa they dribble and even score goals!” As a an elephant nonchalantly strolled with a soccer ball that looked like a fat kids gall bladder to an undefended goal post. Elephants playing soccer? Better than humans, seriously… like it or not the media is a powerful tool, a tool that can hurt your morale and feelings like a motherfucker, just look at Caster Semenya the poor girl is so fed up she wont even sue for possible billions with the help of pro bono top dog fancy law firms. South Africa is definitely not going to win if everybody wants them to lose. I remember when I was in rehab (we’ll talk about that later) during the World Cup draw I saw a newspaper headline that said something like: “We hope South Africa gets New Zealand, Iraq, Trinidad and Paupa New Guinea”.
Imagine a 10 year old child with an innocent knack for arson like all kids do at their age is age getting baptised five days or so after setting his father’s toupee alight by mistake and now he’s standing at the alter two days later and he’s waiting for his forehead to be smeared with an oily cross when he suddenly hears his family members whispering and smacking their lips saying to him, “I hope you get sickle cell disease.” “You’re going to hell you little cunt.” And then his mother says, “When my water broke I didn’t know you were being born! I thought I just drank too much, you fucking buzz kill”. That’s South African soccer and South Africa in general, I guess, in my sweaty, wet back opinion.

Now I don’t like talking about music that much anymore but I have to say that Black Coffee makes me proud to be from Johannesburg and Nutty Nys’ “Nka Mo Dira” is one of my favourite songs for the year. I was going to do a top ten list and all that but I thought fuck it, I’m going to do what I do best and talk about myself because I’m so shy in public. If you were to meet me on the streets you’d probably be like, “what? That’s the internet Kuli Roberts looking like a gay Mbazima Shilowa with the silk red socks? I’m go punch him in the nuts.” And you wouldn’t be wrong to want to punch me in the nuts because I’m a hypocrite (just read the article and by default of being a journalist) and because I use too many commas and now I’m getting into brackets. A new year awaits and I can’t fucking wait for this one to fall off the tree that is eternity and roll off into a river where it can be carried away by a heavy yet soft sweet blue current of Swedish waters right into God’s sweet sweet asshole and dissolve forever into her sphincter and never digest and wither because I will always remember 2009.

Happy New Year Cunt Faces.

Keep It Tidy

RIP: DMX’s Pit bulls, Puffy Daddy’s Other Name, Bernie Mac, Isaac Hayes, Lungile Dlamini (my homie from my honours class at Wits), Brittany Murphy (you were hottest when you boned Eminem’s friend), DJ Am, Kelly Khumalo’s virginity, Victims of Xenophobia, victims of Aids, Patrick Swayze, victims of drunken drivers, Manto Tshabalala, DJ Monde, John Travolta’s son, My girlfriends Auntie, Heath Ledger, Busta Rhyme’s bank balance, MJ Fever Jackson, Lupe Fiasco (Thank God), Berlin 7th avenue (thank God again), 30 Rock and my nigga Keith Floyd, you have no idea what an impact you’ve had on my life. Peace!

22   5
RESPONSES (22)
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    Ya but o ba rogile monna, its what we were thinking anyway, especially my wigger Andy… ebile wa nkolota die bleksem.

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