"Dangerous" D (possibly the most dangerous individual
in Cape Town, and one half of ShaunOakes.com's
resident daredevils) recently sent me this clip of a young
coloured chap called Jason taking part in what we cool
kids call a "battle", between Jason and a white guy. The
white guy "gets served" by Jason, meaning he then has
to "bring it".
Unfortunately he can't and gets burned. (Doesn't show up on film
but my sources tell me he literally burst into flames)
Watch for yourself:
The way the coloured guy moves, reminds me a bit of myself
as a young turk in the late 90's, dancing up a
storm at various Cape Town night clubs, pubs, that one Bar Mitzvah,
Wynberg main road, and that weird bar with lots of bikers and bearded
women.
After months of sitting on cardboard boxes as
well as The Girlfriend, whenever she was disobedient, my Klooftique
furniture finally arrived. I was so excited I decided to
hire a model to show them off.
I then realised I didn't know any models so I used Some Other Guy
instead, as he has a lovely pair of thighs.
Furniture Model: Some Other Guy models one of the
luxurious Brussels Velvet armchairs. To his left, a massive Dark
Bovine leather couch, which is as long as a stretch limo and can
seat up to ten people. Ten fat people. Wearing rucksacks.
Look At Those Thighs: Some Other Guy shows off
his lovely pair of thighs as we see the second luxurious Brussels
Velvet armchair. See the glint in his eye as Some Other Guy gently
strokes the luxurious surface, like an exuberant youth fondling
his first pair of breasts.
A Tough Decision: Some Other Guy is mulling. What
feels more comfortable, the couch or the armchair? He couldn't decide,
and was driven to madness. He began barking like a dog, and jumped
out the window, running down the street on all fours. (This happened
once before when he found out that professional wresting was fake)
We eventually found him in Kloof street, naked and foaming at the
mouth, and shot him with horse tranquilizer, which we usually do
when he gets out of hand.
Some Other Guy's breakdown aside, a big thank you to Klooftique,
ironically in Kloof Street, for their fabulous range of
furniture on offer, as well as the fantastic service from
consultant Kim, who will make sure you get the right lounge suite
to suit your unique style.
So I did one of those "Who do you look like?" thingamabobs
on MyHeritage.com,
hoping to finally dispell the popularly held myth that I resemble
a taut and fresh-faced Brad Pitt. (I think I'm
more of a rugged Ashton Kutcher myself)
The results were not really what I had in mind.
Sade?
Are you kidding me?
And the dude from Deuce Bigalow? Well, okay, I
guess we do share a certain hardness and tough guy persona, but
Tay Ping Hui?
Who is Tay Ping Hui?
Who am I asking so many questions?
Am I expecting an answer?
I'm going to have a nap now. Good day, leave me a alone. I said
good day, sir.
So I watched the Super 14 final on Saturday and
was left utterly bitter and resentful as the Blue
Bulls defeated the Sharks. I learnt two things from this rugby
match though:
1) Never let a boy do a man's job. Percy should
never have been taken off, and could have knocked that vital conversion
over whilst simultaneously adding touch ups to his fashionably
blonde highlights, as he has expertly done on numerous
occasions.
2) Jesus Christ seemingly supports the Blue Bulls,
and may even be playing for them. See below.
Jesus - Rugby Hero: During celebrations,
the Son of God started blowing his own trumpet a little bit.
Yes, that last minute try by that coloured chap Habana
confirmed my earlier suspicions - Jesus Christ loves the
Blue Bulls - a team consisting of 14 bible thumping God
fearers as well as that weird looking Mongol bloke who runs around
at the back (you know who I'm talking about) They even threw on
a guy at the end who bore a disturbing resemblance to the Son of
God, running on in fashionable leather sandals first made famous
by the Nazareth carpenter.
Yes, Jesus loves the Blue Bulls, and he clearly dislikes
me, judging by my carefully planned pool party to celebrate
my birthday having to be cancelled due to certain
events which transpired in Cape Town.
I guess old Sister Mary Parkinson from catholic primary school was
right. God does think I'm an arsehole.
Yes, who would have thought on that dark and stormy night
all those years ago (21 to be exact, give or take a year or two)
that I would be here today, writing about that dark and stormy night,
all those years ago. The years have certainly been kind to me, as
my photo archive below will surely attest to. Some
have put it down to very good genes, others to my uber (without
the "kappies") healthy lifestyle, while a knowledgeable
few even may point to the fact that I bathe daily in fresh
goat's milk, which I source from the three goats who live
in the storeroom at The HQ.
I was in a nostalgic and reflective state the last few days, and
so dusted off the old photo album and put a few pics up on the net,
showing my dramatic metamorphosis from little boy to slightly effeminate
man.
A 12 year old Shaun, looking fresh-faced and innocent.
He has just learnt to throw like a man, and is beginning to grow
facial hair.
A 14 year old Shaun, looking less naive and more
world weary. By this stage he has now mastered the art of peeing
while standing, but has unfortunately lost the ability to throw
like a man, showing the rather disturbing trait of throwing like
a 72 year old woman instead.
A 18 year old Shaun, looking more manly now, with
his ruggedly handsome features beginning to shine through. Still
throwing like a 72 year old woman, but has now discovered the joy
of gymming, developing biceps the size of Mossel Bay. At this juncture
he has also had his first kiss - a 15 year old Belgian prostitute
named Chloe with webbed feet.
A 21 year old Shaun, looking like the rough-around-the
edge, slightly dangerous and crazy guy everyone has come to know
and love. His hair is soft and sleek like cotton, his biceps hard
like a gall stone. The world truly is his mollusk (which is slightly
below an oyster in the evolutionary cycle) and the sky may well
be his limit.
Feeling a little drunk and emotional, I will now take the opportunity
to toast all of you, yes even YOU - for those of you who know me,
who did know me, or who now do not want to know
me - give yourselves a pat on the back anyhow. It's been fun, look
forward to seeing how the rest of this movie plays out.
Confusion Reigns As Shaun Expects Another
Braveheart
Where's Mel Gibson? Why Are They Wearing
Pants?
It was movie time again, and I was excitedly looking forward to
watching Spiderman 3, having put the poster up
in the bedroom at The HQ for months beforehand. The Girlfriend though,
was not up for it and lobbied for an alternative flick, so we settled
the argument in the age old tradition - with a fearsome game of
"Ching Chong Cha" (Paper Rock Scissors).
Sadly for me, The Girlfriend happens to be an incredibly gifted
player, having made the regional finals for 6 years running.
She easily defeated me, leaving her with the enviable position of
Grand Movie Chooser. She duly chose "The King Of Scotland",
starring Forrest Whittaker as the king of Scotland, who went by
the name of Idi Amin. Although Scottish, Idi was
black and so had to put up with a lot of shit from racist British
forces who wanted a white guy to rule. Idi slowly started losing
his mind, killing and maiming anyone who pissed him off, even people
he didn't really know, but didn't like the look of all the same.
The movie plays out like a thriller, shown through the eyes of a
young Scottish doctor, who is Amin's friend at
first but slowly realises that he would be better off far far away,
especially after humping Idi's wife. (Incidently, he also gets to
make out with Scully from the X-Files.
Yes, she is also in the movie. As a blonde)
The film was quite gory at times, one scene in
particular which literally caused my eyeballs to pop out, leading
me to blindly search for them in the dark for a few minutes, and
causing me to miss some of the plot. All in all I found it rather
engaging though, much better than the shockingly mediocre Babel,
although obviously not as heart-pumpingly spectacular as 300.
I would compare this movie to a Kentucky Fried Chicken
rounder. You go there to have a bite to eat, more or less knowing
what to expect and just going through the motions. Then your taste
buds hits the Colonel's secret sauce and you realise
that you are actually quit fond of KFC and wonder why you haven't
been in ages.
...I'm not saying that I'd watch the movie again, but.... actually
I'm having a KFC burger at the moment and just felt compelled to
include it in there somewhere. I haven't had KFC in ages and I forgot
how good it can be. I've literally got a boner right now from the
Colonel's secret sauce, that's how good it is. You're reading something
written by a guy who currently has a massive erection. How special
do you feel right now?
As The Girlfriend Gets Harassed By Burly
Black Men
Being well chiselled and shapely
specimens, The Girlfriend and I are often complimented by random
strangers on the street, telling us how amazing we look.
"How amazing you both look" they will say in wonder, and
then an awkward silence usually ensues, as they
gaze at us expectantly, waiting for an answer.
"Yes we know, you ugly piece of shit. Now leave us alone"
we normally feel like saying, but usually reply with the standard,
"It's good genes. We're very lucky"
In fact, this is not true. I do not have good genes. My father is
a hunchback and my mother was born without
arms and legs. And feet.
No, we look this way through sheer dedication and hard work. You
will often find us at a Virgin Active gym, sweating
buckets and buckets of perspiration, which we then bottle and sell
as a revitalising energy drink on Saturday mornings at the Neighbourhood
Market in Woodstock.
Shaun - These Looks Don't Come Easy
By the way, this is probably the longest introduction
to an article I have ever written. "Get to the point,"
I hear you shouting. Alright alright, calm down, have some sugar
water.
The gist is that the other day The Girlfriend was full on harassed
by a two burly gentlemen, who thought they could
impress her with their massive biceps and feet. Unbeknownst to them,
as The Girlfriend, she is quite used to seeing gigantic biceps and
feet on a daily basis. (...I am of course referring to mine)
In the stretching area, the two Lotharios approached her, and began
conversing innocuously enough, chatting about stretching and exercises.
Then the one piped up - "Hi, I think you're really beautiful
and I think you should give me your number".
She looked at him blankly, the way she looked at me the night we
met - before I managed to spike her drink - and
said coldly, "No thanks, you could be criminals for all I know"
"Actually I am", said the other, "I've just spent
some time in jail for rape".
That "joke" went over like a wet fart.
After another two minutes of putting up with their brand of poorly
executed charm, The Girlfriend eventually pointed them
in my direction, where I was busy benchpressing 1000kg (that's how
strong I am).
Feeling someone watching me, I looked up, saw the disapproving look
in The Girlfriend's eyes, and sprung into action. I flexed my right
arm, causing a shift in the earth's gravitational pull, thus sending
the "rapist" flying into the treadmills, where he died
of a heart attack because I set the speed at 95 km p/h.
I let his friend live, so he could run off and tell the world not
to bother us when we're gymming. If we want to make friends
we'll contact you through Facebook.
Otherwise, kindly f**k off, we're busy gymming. Leave us alone.
Kudos to Steve O, one half of ShaunOakes.com's resident daredevils.
(The other half of course being "Dangerous" D,
currently out with concussion after attempting to take me on in
"30 Seconds")
Steve O successfully negotiated his way through an incredible five
pitchers of beer recently without conceding a drop. It's
real men like Steve O who make the women of Cape Town swoon.
Five pitchers. Jesus Christ (Sorry Mom - Blasphemy) That's like
12.5 litres. That's how much water my pool can
hold. (Don't judge - it's a plunge pool) The last time I drank five
pitchers I ended up crawling home and wetting the bed, as any normal
man would. Right? Huh, right?
Not our Steve O though. Steve O is a machine. Well done Steve O,
you have yet again raised the bar.
Sigh....
Mmmm...
What a meaningless story - I need to write something of substance
soon.
'I'm so over Facebook
right now. There is nothing worse than getting rejected on Facebook.
I've lost limbs in wars, had the sh*t kicked out of me by girls
younger than I, and continually support the Stormers rugby team
in the Super 14, but nothing compares to the humiliation of a Facebook
Rejection.
Why haven't you accepted my Friend request? I used
to share my lunch with you at college. Yes, that's right - look
sheepish now, I'm glad you're feeling bad.
And as for YOU, we're related for God's sake! I spoke to
you last weekend at your mom's birthday. I named
two of my kids after you. Do you know how inconvenient it is having
two kids with the same name?
Let me tell you, it's f**king inconvenient.
I'm messing with those kids' minds - their impressionable, evolving
little minds. But I did it anyway, because I thought we were good
friends.
And this is how you repay me? I curse you, I curse you
and especially curse you over there - don't think I can't
see you cowering behind your cublicle.
Yes, I spelt it "cublicle" - that's how angry I am.
It's Saturday evening at The HQ, and The Girlfriend is busy painting
my toenails whilst braiding my hair at the same time. She is interrupted
by the shrill ring of the phone, causing her to panic and yank out
a handful of my luxurious mane. While she attempts to stem the bleeding
and wipe away my tears, I answer the phone in my trademark
husky voice.
"This is Shaun Oakes," I answer in my trademark husky
voice.
"Hey Shaun Oakes. It's The Brand Ambassador," said The Brand Ambassador,
"Are you crying?"
"...No... What do you want, The Brand Ambassador?"
"I'm throwing a little soiree at Blush Lounge, formerly known
as Bossa Nova. Are you up for it?"
"Only if I'm well looked after, The Brand Ambassador. Only if I'm well
looked after."
"I'm The Brand Ambassador. Of course you will be well looked after."
Two hours later, myself, The Gupster and The Brand Ambassador found
ourselves at Blush Lounge, which was once known
as Bossa Nova many moons ago. It's another JAG
(Just All Guys) night, and with tables bedecked with booze, and
two blonde angels at our beck and call, we quickly settle in. A
large transparent clock mysteriously appears out of nowhere, signalling
that a good deal of time is quickly going by. I point this out to
The Brand Ambassador, who looks at me strangely and advises me to sit a
couple of rounds out.
While The Gupster is busy swapping numbers with one of the angels,
I take a stroll through the club. I see a former classmate from
my days at Catholic primary school. I desperately
try and duck behind a chubby fellow sucking face with his chubby
girlfriend, but I'm not quick enough and the classmate spots me.
She prances over, forcing me to swiftly apply my artificial
smile. For the next few minutes I'm made to relive the
glory days of story sums, playground banter and mid-morning prayers.
She is literally boring the pants off me, I can feel it slowly wriggling
down my waist. I consider using my tried and tested technique for
when dealing with dull and uninteresting people, which involves
me pretending to pass out in a state of utter inebriation.
This has a 100% success rate, as people tend to stop talking once
you collapse in front of them (it's a natural reaction - try it,
you'll see).
What's preventing me from carrying this out though, is the fact
that the floor seems rather sticky. Earlier, we saw another patron
standing on the same spot for about 5 minutes, causing the bouncers
to come over and have the unfortunate chap's feet amputated
in order to free him from the confines of the tiled floors. (They
gave him a couple of comps as an apology though, which he graciously
accepted)
The Gupster walks toward us and, upon seeing our mutual classmate,
finishes his drink and does a flying leap behind
a velvet couch in one swift motion. Truly amazing stuff. His cat-like
movements are not enough to escape her eye though and she prances
over, forcing him to swiftly apply his artificial smile.
For the next few minutes he is made to relive the glory days of
scholar patrol, prefect duties and mid-afternoon prayers. (We prayed
regularly at Catholic primary school) In the meantime I'm chatting
to Thabo From Jozi, who is telling me about a personal mantra he
lives his life by - J.U.I.C.E - which equates to
"Join Us In Creating Excitement". It all sounds pretty
impressive and I'm determined to remember it, so I make him repeat
it about 48 times, after which he doesn't seem that excited anymore,
and doesn't really speak to me after that.
The first portion of the evening has really flown, like a brick
hurled through a glass window by someone with a sturdy arm. It's
Saturday night and we are presented with two options - FTV
Cafe, where more free booze and snacks await, or Opium,
where a group of young flossies are awaiting The Gupster.
We decide to flip a coin - heads for FTV, tails for Opium. Bizarrely
the coin lands upright, which as everyone knows, means a visit to
Tiger Tiger in Claremont.
Driving like the wind over the Atlantic on a Winter's day, we arrive
at Tiger Tiger. We are greeted at the entrance by a bloodied
gentleman being lead out by the always helpful doormen
of the club. Despite bleeding profusely, he seems in good spirits,
telling us to enjoy our night. Being polite gentlemen, we respond
in kind, telling him drive safely as we watch him being dragged
away. Upon arriving at the door, we are told that Tiger Tiger is
having a "White Party", which makes me
uncomfortable, and I threaten to call in Barry
(the Token Black Guy) who I have on speed dial. The stamp girl
assures me that there is no racial overtone, the decor is merely
white and there is an assortment of white balloons, white sand and
white people inside. "But there are blacks and coloureds inside
too" she quickly adds, and I put the cellphone away. Having
our reservations placated, we arrive and begin
with the first of many drinks orders. A large transparent clock
mysteriously appears out of thin air again, but no one seems to
see it except me. I decide to switch to beer for a bit
With the match played earlier at Newlands stadium
(Stormers 10 - Shark 36), the place is crawling with players, closely
followed by an assortment of groupies and flossies. At the bar,
I bump into Bob Skinstad, who again thanks me for giving
him my blessing to sign for the Sharks. I give him a reassuring
pat on the back and head toward The Gupster, who is busy loading
up his harpoon gun and sailor cap in anticipation of a little whaling.
The Brand Ambassador is starting to feel tired, it seems. He's become very
snappy and didn't laugh at a joke about cats I had made earlier
on, which hurt my feelings as I thought it was really funny. We
decide to watch The Gupster hooking up with a large whale for a
bit - which is amusing at first - but the novelty soon wears off
though and we start feeling weird watching the two go at it. I'm
feeling gassy and head off to a bathroom cubicle. There, I let off
one of the greatest and pleasurable farts of my life.
I look down and literally see my stomach deflating, showing my taut
and ripped abs. The wind breaker is long, lasting the entire length
of a Robbie Williams treffer, and there are tears of joy
in my eyes at the end of it. The smell is appalling though - as
I leave the stall, I warn the oncoming gentleman to give this one
a miss. He is cocky and arrogant though, and thinks he has seen
it all. As I head out I turn around to find him flat on his back,
possibly dead.
We decide to call time and head on out past (passed? I don't know
anymore) the rushing paramedics. On the way to
the car, The Gupster cracks a lame joke with a vague reference to
tonight's adventures. We all laugh simultaneously, then all three
of us freeze in still motion mid-laugh, as corny rock music plays
and credits begin rolling down from the sky. Till the next JAG night.
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