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Montle Moorosi, Alastair Laird

Air Borne Aids

by Montle Moorosi / Illustration by Alastair Laird / 12.03.2012

I’m obsessed with fame and death. If you see me walking down the street, I’m probably thinking about how awesome it would be if photographers were trying to take up-skirt pictures of my balls, or how it would suck to have Aids.

Fuck taxes, the only thing promised in life is death and fame.

When I was in high school I wrote an elaborate article for a crappy but wonderful South African hip hop website. The article was about the finer intricacies and etiquette that goes into a well-orchestrated suicide. It was basically a long rant along the lines of “fuck you dad!” And why one should burn all their clothes before committing suicide so your clothes don’t end up on a art fag’s back 10 years later. A few years down the line, in varsity, I tried to commit suicide and realized how gay and boring the whole thing is. Really boring. No one cares about your “cry for help”, they just think you’re stupid cause you don’t realize that by killing yourself you will miss the Thursday rib special at Spur.

I tried and I failed. So, I decided to start making music, not for the love (duh) but for that fame, bru. If you cunts wont let me die then I’m going to get famous and fart in your face til some one shoots me and I get more fame in heaven like John Lennon and Adolf Hitler. I knew it would be no easy task but every hole deserves a poke. Alas, no one told me that the music business is tighter than a dolphin’s vagina. I even used to set myself astronomical deadlines like, “if I’m not famous by the age of 23, I’m going to kill myself”. Well I’m 27 years old now. All my friends and peers are excelling in their respective trades, especially my musician friends, while I sink and will eventually drown with my dick in my ass and my thumb in my mouth, which, as you can probably tell, is way worse than a failed suicide attempt. Just a toothless squirrel surrounded by nuts. All I had was the internet, where my lies were the truth and my rapport was anonymous. I was famous on the internet but in those days that was like being famous for inventing a new type of Aids that’s air borne (The Umlazi Strain).

It was a really warm Saturday afternoon, the nauseating beams of light that shone through the windows of the UCT computer lab emphasized the monstrosity of the obese Venda engineering student sitting next me, looking at pictures of Ryan Giggs. I’m listening to one of my own songs on my old Sony Discman, I stop the CD, break it in two and throw it in the bin. I log onto the crappy but wonderful hip hop site and log onto the forums under a new pseudonym and I begin typing:

Hi all, I am a relative of Montle Moorosi, whom you know as Spacevein/Big Space and I have very sad news. I know he frequents this site and I thought that you should know that last night Montle was in a tragic car accident, which unfortunately took his life. He was an amazing person and friend and will dearly be missed.

Tshepang Moorosi

And then the heavens opened and the angels embraced me with open legs. The response was nothing short of the best marketing campaign since Tupac got himself all shot and more famous than Jesus. One online mourner, who had previously labeled me a “talentless wank job”, wrote, “it’s so sad to lose such a young talented person, I’m going to miss him”. EAT A BAG OF BABY DICKS DUDE! I sat laughing out loud to myself in that computer lab for 6 hours with the obese Venda guy trying to get a glimpse of my private bliss.

Then my phone started ringing, like a lot, more than usual and it wasn’t my mother. I decide to answer one, it’s my friend Nthato.

“Howzit.”
“Montle?”
“Howzit.”
“Montle? Are you ok?”
“Of course bru, what do you mean?”
“Did you just pull a Tupac?”
“Fuck, you got me, sorry I forgot to tell you. Promise not to tell?”
“Of course, in fact I think its genius… It’s Tupac!”

Then my friend Ootsile called and said he was almost in tears and was about to do a song in my memory.
“What do you mean you were almost in tears?” Douche. Then my sister called, everyone wanted to know if I was all right. I said I don’t know who would have written such a mean, disgusting, insensitive thing. Then some jealous little shit decided to give word that I wasn’t dead and basically killed me again by taking away my fifteen minutes. The forums on the crappy but wonderful website were ablaze with people calling me a scumbag, some saying I’m master of my nameless craft but in the end I was still stuck in the internet realm of fame. Air borne Aids.

And here I am still not famous and still not dead, just getting older and older and getting dumber and dumber on a crappy but wonderful blog that occasionally calls itself a magazine.

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