Tuesday, December 21, 2010


Country music IS the devil's music. My roommate once played a whole set of country songs and Satan himself appeared before us.

But then he just begged us to switch those infernal sounds off.

True Story.

Anyway, I must have listened to a hundred country tracks. And that got me thinking.

Don't start applauding, I'm not done yet.

Country music has a pattern. A methodology of lyrics and sounds that sets it apart from normal people's music.

Listen to a couple of country tracks and you'll find that they either have:

  • A Dog
  • A ranch
  • A donkey
  • A woman who left him
  • A woman who died
  • Donkey / dog that left him.
  • Donkey / dog that died.
  • A woman who left with the dog on the donkey, and then died.
  • A cowboy with emotional problems

Paint these lyrics with Texan colours and you have yerself a hit, y'all.

Of course, you are allowed to bring other animals and objects into the song at your own discretion. I've taken the trouble to make a table for you so you can get your country theme going (proof that spending a long weekend out of the house is more constructive).

Just randomly pick from each of the columns for your own country hit!

Let me know what topics you've chosen by leaving a comment behind.

Once you've mixed and matched your options, you should have something like

"My cow bobby-joe makes me wear lace panties everyday in the barn, and that's why I cry"

That my friend, is the theme/title to your new hit country song.

From now on the words don't matter. You can keep repeating the same line over and over again but remember to intersperse it with some guitar TWANGS.

They can't be strums or cool guitar riffs.

They have to be twangs.

twang [twæŋ] n: a sharp ringing sound produced by plucking of a taut string producing an effect as if the guitar is pleading the musician to stop what he’s doing.

Ok we're done. You're a country professional. Don't worry if people say you ain't talented. Talent's got nothing to do with country music.

Once you've made your platinum records and won your award at the cowboy Grammies, you know who to thank.

And the answer is NOT your donkey.

Monday, December 20, 2010


In the beginning God created Adam. After some thought and a lot of tinkering he pulled out a rib from the poor sod and created a pretty little thing called Eve. Eve never really got Adam. Apart from the fact that he had weird looking body parts, his thinking was radically different.

Eve wanted to cover his poker with a fig leaf. He preferred going commando. She preferred eating forbidden apples. He liked kobé beef with a side of bacon and potatoes. And the way he looked at some of the sheep made Eve very insecure about her looks.

Which wasn’t Adam’s intention…but it’s just a case in point that there are some things about men that women will never understand. Never. Fast forward to the 21 century and things are pretty much the same. Read on and see.

Shopping isn’t therapy for men. Women have a million excuses to shop. A 50% off sale. A party to go to. A chipped nail. A break-up. Or even swine flu. Men have one reason. We need new clothes. And there are clear rules as to when clothes become old. The colour should have faded to another colour that isn’t cool. A rip in our pants, if, and only if those pants are not denim. Ripped denims are absolutely fine. Lucky shirts are not to be replaced under any circumstances. The food stains have memories to them. And the moth eaten holes add character. We won’t replace it. You can’t make us. Even if you withhold sex. Ok… perhaps you can.

Men understand the healing properties of beer. Beer is the elixir of life. Beer heals the broken heart, the broken bone and is the answer to the cure for cancer, given that our researchers have downed enough beer. The best remedy to a hang-over? More beer! It makes your cooking more palatable. It keeps the Vatican going. Beer is not just an alcoholic beverage. For men, it’s a food group. Just like doughnuts and spare-ribs. It’s the main reason my birds chirp and snakes move in the groovy way they do. Beer – there’s just no denying it.

We’re not always analysing our relationship. Sometimes it’s just fine for us to stare at the ceiling and not think about taking the next step in our relationship. You know that intense contemplative look we get when we’re looking into the deep abyss of nothingness? There are three possibilities to what might be going on there. We’re either sulking over the loss of our favourite team. Or, we’re passing gas. And the most plausible… WE’RE NOT THINKING ANYTHING. That’s what we do. We zone out to a happy place of absolute nothingness. It’s a gift. Think of it as beans induced meditation.

We’re always ready for sex. You wanna know what’s a clear sign that we want nookie? We’re breathing. That’s the sign. It’s ok to wake us up for sex at any time. Absolutely any time. Nine times out of ten, sex takes precedence over sleep. The other one time we’re just recovering from a romp. And to be honest... some of us are good to go again. We don’t need a reason, a place, a mood or the proper lightning. We’re understanding beings. Football’s on? No problemo. That’s why Kamasutra was invented. So we can twist our bodies in such unimaginable ways that we can enjoy two things at once. A lil footy and a lil nookie.

We don’t know what a conditioner is. Seriously. What the fuck is it? We just got around the shampoo bit. Lather, rinse, repeat… we get it. Now conditioner? What does it condition? Or let’s take a step back. What does condition even mean? Men don’t get it. I’m not even sure we want to. Is it like a primer? Or a glaze? You know how you baste the chicken with butter to make it all shiny. Perhaps that’s what it does. Truth be told – it’s a ploy. If you don’t see a conditioner on our shelves, it’s because we refuse to bow down to corporate marketing gimmicks. All we need is our trusted old deo that promised to get us the chiquitas.

We’ll watch porn no matter how much sex we’re getting. Here’s the thing. What women see as pornographic movies, men see as educational video aids. It’s almost like a distance learning course. We’re always in this constant state of learning, absorbing what’s new, and putting into practice. So what if the teachers happen to be mutli-award winning porn stars Jenna Jameson and Jenna Haze? You know that new move we bring to the bedroom? We didn’t read that stuff in Readers Digest. We leaned that from ‘XXX Men – The rise of Erecto Magnifico.

Our obsessions with breasts. What’s not to like? They’re magical! They’re like everyday Christmas presents. Perhaps that’s why we’re fixated with the things. One stupid apple in the beginning of time and they’ve been covered for all eternity. If you’re hiding them, they must be special. If women started wearing ear-muffs all the time, we’d start paying good money just to see pictures of their ears. A woman would cross you in the park, and you’d turn to your friend as say “Check out the lobes on that chick!”

Why we don’t stop to ask for directions. A debatable study says that men have a little extra iron deposited in their bodies. And like a compass, we’re supposed to have a pretty good sense of direction. Well, theoretically at least. But truth be told, asking for directions is a sign of weakness. Men are always fighting to be pack leaders. The rest are supposed to look to us for help and assistance. Not the other way around. We’re supposed to know where things are. Most of us can find the fridge and toilet in the dark. A restaurant half way across town can’t be all that tough.

Why we don’t remember important dates and things. Again, men are always in a constant state of learning. Like sponges, we’re constantly absorbing data, mostly to make our better halves happy. But nobody can hold an infinite amount of information. Something’s gotta give. Effectively, for every new bit that is processed, something old has to go. We learn the answer to “Am I pretty” and we forget the answer to “Am I fat”. We learn your mother’s name, we forget our anniversary. We remember to pick up milk, we forget the shout out the right name in bed. It’s simple mathematics and we can’t be blamed for it.

The need to control the remote is in our man genes. It’s not something that can be treated. It’s the law of nature. Women might not know the proper technique of speed- flipping during commercials. How to watch two programs at once. Or even the specific volume levels for each program. For example every man knows that Sex and the City can be best enjoyed when the volume is at 2. And Die Hard ... 88 or even 89. These things are built into our DNA. So let us do what we do best and hand over the remote.

Men appreciate beauty in the most unlikely of places. The neighbour who steps out for a jog in a tank-top. The yoga instructor in flat 24-c in desperate need of opaque curtains. The girl with a tongue stud at the check-out counter. Women might misunderstand our roving eyes for being inconsiderate. Insensitive. Some even go to the extent of saying we objectify them. Well, excuse us for applauding God’s handy work. Us looking around is just our way of giving him a spiritual high-5.

Violence = entertainment. Movies about a hooker falling in love with a billionaire is a no-no. One about a girl falling in love with a bat and a wolf is also a pass. We’re born hunters. Get us close to the action. Aliens. Helicopters exploding. Cars crashing. Aliens crashing helicopters into cars. All we need is a semi-decent plot, a couple of explosions, all sprinkled with the integral sex scene. Safe to say, we’re flexible on the plot part. A flick with anything less than a paper-cut is not likely to get the adrenaline pumping.

We don’t know why you’re angry. So stop walking around in a huff saying “you know what you did.” We just don’t remember. Was it that reference to your mother being Satan’s spawn? Did we mention your weight? Is today our 140 month anniversary. Just come out and say it, because we’re not lying when we say We Don’t Know. Asking us to figure it out will just have us apologising for ridiculous stuff. “Honey, I’m sorry I took you out to dinner. I apologise if that man didn’t know you were just a bit bloated and not expecting twins.”