Vuvuzelva

Quimulus the Devout, reporting from South Africa:

We are once again posting live from South Africa, as translated from Jonesville, Colorado. Rather than hue closely to defined regional boundaries, I am presenting a join-matrix teleprompt merging the World Cup and wherever I may be playing, a veritable world away.

Hey, Television for years had their broadcasters in a Miami studio, issuing their breathless exhortations to taped soccer games. My Spanish blows, but otherwise I am using a time-tested formula.

A common plaint from viewers of the World Cup: Vuvuzelvas. These regional fart-horns are the scourge of the games.

I am a relative newcomer to soccer fanaticism, despite having played and watched in recent years. My housemate, the consumate futboler Ze Mimpy, has effectively dragged me into this addictive cult.

The fart-horns are nothing new to me. At boring phases of matches, trumpets or monotonal fart-horns are deployed at Latino American games. It is the trumpeting of someone in a herd, longing to have fun, but stuck in a herd at a tepid futbol match. The fart-horns are America's version of the wave.

The wave is so yesterday, but bored weirdos still attempt it at games. Last time I went to a Rockies game, I stopped a wave consisting of 1/3 of 30,000 fans by cold-cocking someone who rhythmically stood up with the putative wave, right next to me, just as Jeff Francis threw the pitch.

Ushers saw me do it; 15 of the purple-shirted eye-stabbers came at me from converging vectors. Before they descended upon me, all 1050 years of usher, they received instructions in their headsets from the crew chief that I had punched someone trying to propagate an ass wave, therefore vindicating me.

Within minutes, the acting club president had approached me with an offer of 4 field-level seat season tickets for 2011. I thought it was a nice gesture, but I only tipped them 10% because my knuckles were sore the next day, and the 80-year-old woman that I punched went whining to the Denver Post. She'd better hope she never sits in section 237, row 15, seat 7 again.

Somehow I was the bad guy in all this. Fuckin' BP. It's been all downhill since mid-April. Fuckin' Obama. Do I have to pick up EVERYONE's slack?

Vuvuzelva is an interesting noun. It automatically contracts to Vulva for me, and I will not answer to things that happen for me subconsciously. People blowing on vulvas is okay by me, even if the rest of the listening world is distracted. I do the same thing every day.

When people are at a stop light next to me, talking on the phone, I turn my car stereo up all the way. If I can hear them talking through their open window, they will need to conduct their phone call over my vulva noise, which is usually some disgusting steel guitar country song.

I have this friend Bastiaan, a man who was annointed with vowels early, especially "a". His name causes confusion here, because it is not one of the univowel type of Amerikanski name - Rob, Vern, Dan, Jim, Tim, Rim, John, and the list is endless. All the whining white pieces of shit we know have such a name. The guys anyway. Norm, Mark, Bill. I get sick of looking at it. Damned univowelers.

Well, Bastiaan Cornelissen is quite a futboler. I hate him because he is better than me at futbol, and I have really tried. He is a Netherlander, not a Hollander, so of course he can kick my ass at futbol.

His name is a theme in the Copa Mundial. First, Michel Bastos, which is a bastardization of Cornelissen brothers Michael and Bastiaaan. He is Brazil's attacking back, and a quiet bastard at that.



Over in Germany, the erstwhile Lord of Netherlands, you have the star midfielder Bastian Schweinsteiger.



My crack Euro-language reporter Bastiaan (blogging from Utrecht, Netherlands) reports that Bastian Schweinsteiger's name must be a joke. The English translation of his name is Hog Mounter. That is not a joke. In German, schwein is hog, steiner is mounter or climber. I respect Schweinsteiger's futbol acumen and care not what he does in his leisure time.

Reporting for ESPN is FIFA player of the year, Dutch futboler Marco van Basten. Is this the year of the Bastion at the World Cup? Stranger things have happened. I think it's my year, too. Danny Alves, Dani - the comparison names keep coming up.

The Chinese write that the signs find each other in their mates - the ox and the snake, the ram and the crab - whatever. In my own personal case, I think the Chinese have an inadequate description. I am the stool, she is the plow. How that fits together is another topic.

For Switzerland we have the futboler Lichtsteiner. Damn they are graphic in Europe. The head of FIFA is known as Sepp Blatter, which roughly translates as urinary tract infection. Swiss futboler Tranqillo Barnetta's first name means "peace". From Cameroon we have a Bong and a Song, and isn't that what makes a decent party? A bong, a song, and a black mouth - Carlos Bocanegra, anchoring the USA defense.

Reporting from Pretoria,
Quimulus the Devout

Who Else?

I'm in the computer industry. The rectangular, 6-outlet blocks I call plug-ins or power strips are correctly known as surge protectors. Hmm. Surge protectors. Sounds like a euphemism for condoms. Phrasing is so important in product branding.

Speaking of genitals, I can't help notice my own proud, handsome... No, that's not what I'm after just now. I'm here to report on the World Cup, one of those behind the scenes, hard hitting documentaries about life in South Africa. Like something Bryant Gumbel would do on HBO.

Life as a woman is hard. Ask any of the worldwide representatives of this condition - there are right at 3.5 billion of them. They will document at length how bad it is, any of them.

Life in Africa is berry hard. South Africa's AIDS cases make that country (and the rest of the dreaded sub-Saharan Africa region that you always get asked about when you donate blood) a desperately difficult place to live for many, many.

They're poor. Good shit, I'm going to drop $400 for a set of tires and I won't even blink. Well, maybe once or twice as the asshole, 24-year-old, slicked-back douche tries to sell me more expensive tires and rotation warranties.

$400 would be a stellar half-year's wages for a large segment of South Africa.

Okay, you understand, it's hard to be a black woman in South Africa. But listen to this.

From Sweden, a Dr. Sonnet Ehlers has invented a device known as the Rape-aXe. Rape is so prevalent in South Africa that the darkness of night creates curfew for women. Better to be where you must go 2 hours before dark, and even then it is about as safe for a woman as being held hostage in a maximum security prison riot.

Rape is epidemic in South Africa. I'm not talking about date rape or regret rape or spousal rape or any of the ways that rape has become a teddy bear for U.S. women. I don't minimize these categories; I just want to define what rape we are talking about.

I'm talking about grab her on the street rape. Often from gangs; a disturbing amount of the time with vicious beating and scarring and humiliation rituals beyond the terror of gang rape.

Poor women can't afford a doctor, or anything for that matter. They drag themselves home and try to get back going soon, because any woman who doesn't is no more than a bug in South Africa. She may get AIDS from the assault. She may have one of the rapists' children, pregnant in addition to the soul-shattering. And on and on. They'll all be hungry tomorrow.

Rape-aXe, a physical deterrent to screwing. This a device combines two concepts: a flexible rubber tube and an iron maiden.

The iron maiden is a medieval torture device that stands you up in a suit of armor, effectively - like an upright metal cabinet. Copious holes in the metal enable the sticking of knives and needles and anything that you fancy into the victim (I mean, the interviewee - sorry, Uncle Dick Cheney) to torture and murder said potential Al Qaeda #3 candidate.

Rape-aXe fits inside the excitement chamber and does not hurt the woman. Seemingly, it would be an untenable solution wearing a small culvert inside you, until you (the guy reader or the guy writer) consider this:

Women wear tampons periodically throughout their fertile years. They roll around with diaphragms and other IUD's. Lest we forget, with movies to remind us, their turnstiles are spun many times in and around the fertile years.

Sometimes the molehill expands to add a new room, the result of an infant coming through. The Rape-aXe is just another carry-around twat utility, if you will.

When a woman deploys a Rape-aXe, a man's meat-pile inserted into the Venus Homey Trap gets seized, like shit you owe taxes on. Grabbed like Palestinean land with an Israeli house on it. Like avoiding the fee at the anachronism known as drive-in theaters, going in the exit lane and popping tires.

More like it, from my younger days, like a raccoon in a steel trap. That garden is OFF LIMITS.

The Rape-aXe stays hooked on a cock even more effectively than, say, a 70-pound snapping turtle. It's not that the force is so great, like the jaws of a large snapper, but the makers of this device describe the experience of a cock-affixed Rape-aXe as akin to accidentally zipping Mr. Johnson in one's jeans.

I would like to know how they did the testing on this. "Okay, Paul, now that we've adjusted the device not to penetrate your urethra, how would you describe the pain?

1. Pain of sitting in a room with orange walls.
2. Pain of the daily alarm clock.
3. Hurts, but life hurts, so go talk to some sissy if you want a bunch of whining.
4. Hurts like being a Boston Celtic fan (in other words, being a whiny pussy).
5. Hurts like classic country music lyrics.
6. Hurts like falling off your bike.
7. Hurts, don't it?
8. Pain. Ow.
9. Listening to Wham!
10. Getting stuck in a car that flipped upside down, trapped for hours listening to a Wham! tape repeat.
11. Admitting in any way that you enjoyed the music of Wham!
12. Bully-punch pain.
13. Getting laughed at by cute chicks pain.
14. Dad whipping you pain.
15. Parents getting divorced pain.
16. Dick in a zipper.
17. Rape.
18. Stage 4 bone cancer.
19. A pack of rottweilers chomping my dick.
20. An eternity of custom-designed torment in hell.
20. Watching the Sex and the City sequel.


Note that the 2 #20 entries are not tied for 20th - they are the same thing.

The clamp stays on your cock. You cannot have it removed without surgery, and if you decide to tough it out, there is unpleasantness. You won't be able to piss. It comes in handy to piss, let me tell you.

That's our story from Soweto, the brutal underbelly of South Africa, which is dubbed "The Rape Capital of the World". Hey, we're number one! Not like the Bafana Bafana are going to do anything worthwhile in the World Cup.

I'm Claroofus Jones, reporting from South Africa. And yes, I am wearing a Rape-aXe in my ass right now. An empty one, so far.

Here's the thing. Such a device has been around for ages - a simpler model, but without moving parts and no literal teeth on your dick, just a piece of paper.

It's called the m-ARRiage. If you happen to sink into the wrong punani, you can't get out unless you go to a lawyer. You may never use Mr. John Henry in the same way again, after m-ARRiage is removed.

Appealing to women, the guy usually pays for the m-ARRiage device, whereas women have to buy the Rape-aXe (aka, the Jaws of Wife).

As usual, South America is way behind in culture and technology.

Claroofus Jones

Hi, Faithful Readers! Or is that still singular - reader?

Remember to check below the current story from time to time. I just finished up something I started in May but could not finish. It's called Lemmings Something Something.

Bi for now.

Community News

"A friend received tutelage at the Page residence for 3 weeks." This sounds straight out of a small-community newspaper. Such publications are frugal in budget, the community they report on more frugal yet, on toward austere, in the way of events. "Dale Guptill reports a lot of grasshoppers around his place."

The small newspaper relies on articles from people who write community news. A volunteer from each community calls neighbors and finds out what they've been doing, regurgitating the information in print, without embellishment, garnish, or prose style.

Community news is pure drivel, trivia below the repeat level. Events not worthy of being recorded, devoid of substance. Such dross threatens to lower the reader's biorhythms so low their reptilian brain starts to shut down.

"Jeremy Case spent most of Wednesday getting his cows back in the pasture. The recent snow pushed the fence down and sure enough, the cows found that down place and went right through."

"Bonnie Cecil made brownies for the Legion fundraiser."

I sniff my nose at such rint, but him are the liar that says him don't read the news from each and every community - Vetal, Long Valley, Green Valley, Interior. Even Tuthill, I'm sad to confess.

Aren't these personal writing sites, so-called blogs, just community news with updated technology?

-------------------

"A friend received tutelage at the Page residence for 3 weeks." I invited my friend Drizzel Phume here for resume boot camp, 3 weeks of intense, focused work on his resume and how to pursue the elusive job. Common theme last year; I really felt that Phume could land a job even in this turd job market. I worked with him roughly 1 epoch ago at Lockheed in Sunnyvale, CA, and though he is a math major, he does a passable imitation of a software engineer. Believe me, that is better than a lot of the sad sacks in the IT (information technology) industry.

It was grueling. We must have spent close to 7 minutes a day on the getting-job pursuit.

This is what came out of it:

Top 15 accomplishments of the trip:

15. Walk to the store to get bread, eat good chicken parm, walk home
14. Pizza and massage to break out of a persistent dual hangover
13. Toilet kit replacement
12. Colombian hats!
11. African band at the St. Juliens
10. Intro to SQL Server class
9. Haute cuisine on the high plains, home cookin'
8. The Great Fire of Congo Jones' Back Yard
7. Resume update
6. Billiards and hot tub. Billiards and hot tub. Billiards and hot tub.
5. Jonesing on Jones' music
4. Talking to lissome, earthy, appealing young chicks at the St. Julien
3. Drizzel file-sharing his collection of movies. Hard drive!
2. Tet! Unbelievable food, reunion with Tuna, another pool tournament victory.
1. Kansas game.

As to #7, Drizzel got a job. He's been at it for almost 2 months.

--------------

About 4:07 PM at work every day, I get the feelin'. Like a 2.8 Richter-scale rumble.

I don't like making my drop at work. You've got these Larry Craig types who sit in the middle stall, so you're likely to encounter the wide stance, the foot tapping, the absent sounds of crapping.

Who sits in the middle one when 3 are available? Are you that starved for male love? Just ask me out! Damn, you don't have to sit in the middle stall.

One guy uses the sanitary seat covers. I won't kid you, I have scant time for that level of hypochondria.

A sign in the bathroom reads, "Restrooms are for your convenience. Please help to maintain a germ-free environment."

Now we're in a clean room. People, we're going to have to realize something. We're taking a dump. We're washing our hands. We have our hands on our genitalia. Germ-free is a little naive, given the reality of the proliferation of germs.

I find it interesting to call a restroom a convenience. I thought it was something a little bit more than that. If you think about it, a restroom is an expensive attempt at a healthy, disease-free workplace. More than a convenience, I would think. Legally mandated, also. I believe something that is required is above the convenience level. I hate to say it, but I NEED it.

I would gladly take a dump in one of the deserted hallways of the 3rd floor, if the management company chose to remove our conveniences. Buncha clowns down there, playa-hatin' on 4th floor. I'd just as soon leave yesterday's burrito outside the abandoned Countrywide Home Loans office, an utter sham and ripoff of a company, defunct on our taxpayer dime. I should behave like I'm a dog that smells another dog's piss and reflexively lets loose his own sef. Every time, I see the Countrywide logo, I vacate bowel.

I love talking about the human condition. I'm waiting for some university to grant me an honorary Doctor of Scatology award.

Every day at work, right around 4:07, I get the feelin'. I drink water, walk around. I don't want to deal with the Larry Craig types on the 3rd floor or leave my signature of gastrointestinal distress with one of my co-workers in the 4th floor Juancho. The situation is not resolved easily.

Air fresheners are scant help. That air ain't fresh; I just made sure of that.

However, once I'm home, I relax 20 minutes and smile. A different feeling occupies me. "I'm gonna send one on down to Civil."

Less than a half mile away sits the Boulder Wastewater Treatment Plant. That's where our treasure goes. The convenient restrooms in the convenient office buildings end up right over there, lovingly tended to by a civil engineer. All the stuff from my house. My neighbors' houses. Anyone who doesn't battle the late-spring mosquitoes for a sylvan release.

Civils like their jobs. People who work at Checkers and Pep Boys like cars; Civil engineers like _____. This type of question is why I did so well on standardized tests.

In college, one of my classmates was a Civil. He had a textbook for a senior-level class. One day he was carrying it, and I read the spine. "Rates of Solid Waste". Here before me was a trained shit counter. I had never thought much about my dung, and right beside me were people aspiring to count it, handle it, manage it, earn from it.

What a learning experience, college.

Civil engineers are the dung beetles of superfauna. They're waiting on it. Civils loll about aimlessly until the folk upstream do the Bad Burrito Water Slide. Then it's up-and-at-'em, the work has just begun.

I am happy to accommodate them. Is the root of "accommodate" in fact "commode"? I had never thought about that, either.

Now it makes sense, thinking about how Tom Horan used to ogle me lustfully. I always thought he was a major league gaylord, but now I realize he was after something else. He'd always give me a quick once over and gesture with his eyebrows. His thought bubble was:

"Well, how about it? Are you in the mood?"

Quimulus the Devout