This is hilarious. True pee-in-your-pants laughing funny. Do NOT drink any liquids prior to watching the clip. You will only end up spraying it over your keyboard and other electronic devices. I warned you. So go ahead. Watch. I’ll wait…
I told you didn’t I?
And who knew? Who knew Dr. Carrie Torrez could sing? We all know she has a big mouth and a lovely smile, but sing? Like this?
Ironically it was this performance who got her on the map. She won a Tony for it. What’s a Tony? It’s those little awards they give to people who act in theatre. Sometimes on Broadway. What’s a theatre? It is a venue with a stage, heavy red curtains, a sunken band stand and rows and rows of seats. Mostly comfortable. No it’s not like a movie house. In theatre there’s real life people, singing or dancing or acting on stage. So there’s no cuts and take 2′s. It’s all done in one go. Live. Yes, it’s like a movie reality show.
Anyhow, she won the Tony for playing Lady of the Lake in Monty Python’s Spamalot. Which also clears up the reason why you were laughing your ass off watching the clip.
After this hilarity, ABC (the network) offered her a role in any of their signature shows and she picked Grey’s Anatomy ’cause she was a fan of the show at the time. Since then she has become a series regular and then in episode 18 of season 7 she did that other thing. She sang on the musical episode. But we all know that Story. Yes, I’ll wait. Go ahead, listen.
Welcome back. Let’s all agree that she sang the shits out of that song, and introduced a whole new generation of people to an artist known as Brandi Carlisle.
It has to be said, that I worked my way backwards, for it was the song on Grey’s that made me Google Sara Ramirez. The woman who portrays Dr Torrez. No, she’s not a real doctor. Actually none of them are. *shattered dreams*. But finding this treasure on YouTube was worth every dragging scene I had to sit through watching her trying to reconcile with her lesbian wife. The one whose leg she cut off. And by the way, thank you Grey’s for all the awkward conversations I’m having to have with Son.
I did the responsible thing by warning you about the hilarious, drop down funny elements of the first clip. But I’m sneaky, for I neglected to elude to the fact that “The song that goes like this” (you’re singing that sentence already, aren’t you?) WILL become an earworm. A massive one. Big ones like these should be called earpythons, in my humble opinion. It’s going to go on repeat for the duration of the day, giving the term ‘broken record’ a totally different meaning. And you’ll not only try and imitate their powerful voices in the shower, you will try an mimic their mannerisms as well.
Due to my own moderate guilt of not warning you, I’m also attaching a clip of another song she sang in that show. This time I stand back and wash my hands in innocence. But note that all the things I said in the post that goes like this about the song that goes like this, is also true for this song. It might even be funnier… So you’ll be blown away. For the third time.
And I’ve just replaced your old earworm with a new one.
I’ve posted on nudity before. No, there’s nothing wrong with me. My wife have me checked twice a month.
It was a post on how certain human activities are just not suppose to be executed without clothes on. Things like jogging or getting a haircut. (If you want to leave the awesomeness of THIS post and plunge right in to THAT post, you can start by clicking THIS link, here. But you need to be naked in order to do so. It’s a new updated version of WordPress.)
The point of THIS post would be to add one more item to THAT list of five. And that one activity would be: The Act of Survival.
An odd choice? Let me explain.
I was bored last night. And being bored for most men, implies mindless surfing with a television remote. Game of Thrones, Season 4, is only starting this Friday in South Africa, so there is nothing on. I must admit, I think I’ve developed a twitch in anticipation of the new season. Please don’t comment on how great or not great it is, for there might be a spoiler revealed in your comments and then I will have to hunt you down and massacre your family like the twisted king at the Red wedding. (If you don’t know what the hell I’m going on about, then you shouldn’t worry about it, for it means your family is safe.)
Anyhow, during my time-killing escapade I landed on the Discovery Channel, which unlike M-TV, still showcases some of the content of the original channel I grew to appreciate over the years. I have to say “some” for it seems that the Reality-Show-Monster has gotten hold of some of the producers from this channel as well. Then chewed of a part of their brains, like some perverted Zombie on a diet, altering their fundamental understanding of what would make great TV viewing. The poor sods over at M-TV were obviously attacked by a ravenous Zombie mob, for they doesn’t seem to have any brain matter left.
So now you have the privilege of seeing a show like Naked and Afraid in High Definition on Discovery.
A show where two total strangers gets dumped in some of the biggest shitholes on planet Earth and they’re expected to survive for 21 days. Without any clothes on. Yes, I didn’t make a typo there, I wrote: Without any clothes on. And they do this, not as punishment for kicking dogs or stealing from blind people, no, they do it v-o-l-u-n-t-a-r-y. I know, right!
Two questions comes to mind immediately.
(1) What the fuck? and
(2) What the FUCK?
Darwin was right after all. There IS a connection, some sort of a missing link between homo sapiens and other primates. But it is not some extinct primitive being that is fossilised in a desert that used to be a swamp. No people, that missing link is alive and well. Living amongst us. It’s the cast of Jersey Shore and anyone who would be stupid enough to WANT to partake in this very surreal version of survival.
I say this, for one has to be a whole new breed of stupid (or ridiculously confident) when you’re prepared to show off all our jiggly/dangly/wobbly bits to a perfect stranger. For 21 days. In the middle of nowhere. Fighting for your life.
Fortunately/unfortunately, depending on what gets you off, they blur out the most embarrassing bits of the human body in every episode.
I mean, let’s consider this for a moment. People have been in various predicaments where they had to survive against the elements. Conquering the human spirit and all that wonderful bravado that goes along with the guy who chewed of his foot in order to make it to his wedding reception. And we will always be eternally grateful to Bear Grylls who taught us that drinking the blood of a snake might save you from dehydration. But when have you ever heard of anyone who had to fight for their life, in some desolate uninhabitable place on earth, naked!? That is just a whole new kind of kinky.
Then there’s contestants who have placed themselves in numerous situations, facing down Mother Nature for money in countless survival based reality shows. But we should never forget that Mother Nature is a female. And mankind hasn’t really been doing her any favours as of late. So the chances are actually stacked against us when if comes to a confrontational survival strategy. And I think when we do it with an audacious attitude, like not covering ourselves, then we’re just looking for shit.
I cannot begin to fathom any sane reason why any person would think “Yes, yes, yes, that is something I would love to do.” These people should be put down, for they might want to have kids one day.
In some episodes, I’ve seen two, the people suddenly have the urge to cover themselves on day 16. Which to me is somewhat confusing. One would consider finding food as being slightly more important than trying to cover your rack ala Eve style. Especially when you lost so much weight that the va-va-voom factor has left the building and gravity has pulled the nipples knee level. And you can actually count your ribs.
And let’s not forget the crying, like Oscar Pistorius during his trial. Sobbing because you’re sad and miserable and alone with a stranger and hungry and naked. And you only realised this on day 19? Are you serious?
I don’t like stupid people anymore.
PS – I see it’s on every Tuesday with re-runs on Thursday.
This monument is erected by the officers in…ah just read the inscription on the stone.
But seriously, it was built in memory of fallen soldiers during battles in the Anglo Boer War that took place around our town in Fort Amiel. Yes, the links will tell you more if you’re that way inclined.
It’s a pleasure.
Remember the time when screensavers were really important in daily conversation and countless hours were wasted getting the settings just right? A wondrous, devious little distraction from whatever we were really suppose to do at the time, i.e work. I’m using a memory reference, for the same hours are spilled these days browsing YouTube and Facebook. For work reasons, obviously.
So there is very little idle time on our screens these days. And if some idle time does come our way, well just cycle a few family pics on the screen, why don’t you.
Back in the day, of screensavers that is, I’ve always maintained that the most inspirational screensaver actually happens around us constantly. Just look up at the sky, with ever changing clouds and a hundred shades of blue, there is a consistent display of how awesome creation actually is.
But it’s those times when the sun says hello and goodbye that makes the sky truly spectacular. Mixing magenta’s and red’s and oranges and ambers and yellows into colours no artist would ever be able to replicate perfectly. It’s then when God’s screensaver really captivates us. The times when it sheds inspiration and stirs our soul. The few times when it forces a smile on everyone, even the Grinch. *spoiler alert* The green guy who stole Christmas, only to give it back.
Driving back home this morning, I was greeted with this mind-blowing sunrise and almost caused an accident with an impulsive U-turn. In my defence, I was trying to find an open field where I could capture most of the scene, with my phone.
And then I thought, I would share it with everyone.
It has to be the most common annoyance experienced by users of technology everywhere. As soon as you want to partake in the pleasures and treasures of modern comforts, a password is required. For every frigging thing.
A password is required if you want to buy stuff, read stuff, access stuff, post stuff, play stuff, write stuff, approve stuff, release stuff. A password is even required if you just want to retrieve your own goddamn stuff. You end up with a thousand different places where you need to type in those eight crucial characters.
The problem is an obvious one: What normal human being has the ability to remember all the different passwords that is required for daily functioning?
No one, I tell ya. Not one single person. (And Spock is not a person.)
The reality is that most people simply pick one. A password for everything. One word that rule them all. One that grants the user the ability to access everything about you. A whole Internet portfolio available if you know the crazy combination of the user. Allowing cyber criminals the opportunity, to not only hijack your credit card, but steal your blood and kidneys as well.
The second conundrum in selecting a password is finding something that you will remember tomorrow.
So it will most probably end up being something relatable. Something the user likes or dislikes. Maybe a favourite movie. Or band. And this proves that the spy movies are accurate. You know which ones I’m referring too? Those where the hacker sits and access a computer because he sees a painting in the study and types in the painter’s name that appears on the golden frame. And we think what poor sod would choose such an obvious, easy password? And we laugh at the ridiculousness of the scene. The absurdity of another Hollywood cop-out.
Well here’s my little secret. I’m very close to that sod. I am SO hackable. Hollywood might know something after all.
Anyhow, if I didn’t have a word to rule them all, then I’ll probably end up with this sequence next time I want to check my non-existing bank balance:
Please enter log in name:
Your password has expired. Please enter new password:
Your password requires a minimum of eight characters. Please try again:
Your password requires a capital letter. Please try again:
Your password requires a numeric number. Please try again:
Your password doesn’t allow spaces. Please try again:
Your password requires a symbol key. Please try again:
Your password doesn’t allow subsequent capital letters. Please try again:
That password is already in use. Please try again:
And I’m off to my happy place with my good friend Jack. (which I got on credit.)
This is a serious post. It’s not funny at all.
For that would be condescending and insulting to the source of inspiration for this specific post. It would imply I don’t appreciate the mindjack that took place yesterday. That moment when my words and thought were taken from me and I was lost for a few minutes in a world of nothingness.
I recently wrote a piece about my own battles with early mornings and becoming human. Not having the charisma to wake up with a smile. I called the piece Two-face: A case of temporary schizophrenia. It eluded to the fact that me going to the gym, at the crack of dawn, is actually a process of transformation from Grumpy to Happy. Two sides of the same coin.
After pressing the blue button, I started receiving a few likes from The Faithful Few. And then without warning… BANG! It was there. On screen. My mindjack. A negative comment…
From someone who has a family member suffering from actual schizophrenia. The woman was not impressed with my blatant disrespect and seemingly insensitive handling of such serious subject matter.
I was stunned.
First of, I don’t consider myself to be an asshole. However that is a personal opinion. Secondly, I don’t make a habit of standing on a street corner making fun of random people I see. For then I would have had to be a stand-up comic, which I’m not. So it would be stating the obvious that it was never my intention of disrespecting people who has any kind of mental condition. It was an analogy, using Two-Face as a reference for me not being a morning person.
In those first moments of my mindjack, I wanted to trash the piece. I was petrified that something I wrote could be considered offensive, to anyone.
Then I took a valium and used some of the breathing techniques my wife taught me whilst she was in labour and my blood pressure dropped steadily and the anxiety attack dissipated. Then I started to think. (I do that sometimes.)
When does subject matter morph from being funny and entertaining to insulting and insensitive? Are their certain topics or issues that should be untouchable? Should we, as writers be cautious of publishing material that might insult someone? Should we consider every possible negative reaction before we press publish? Should we have a social conscience to the extend of it effecting our stories? Do we have enough power that it would require some degree of responsibility?
I don’t know. But here’s what I do know.
(1) I am grateful and honoured to have a slightly wider audience than the one I had one year ago.
(2) The reason(s) for me writing this blog has not changed. They just got older.
(3) Receiving a negative comment on something I wrote was a real unpleasant stunner. Like finding out the girl you’re flirting with is a man.
And it’s never happened before. For some reason I never considered readers will actually comment when they DON’T like a piece. I ignorantly assumed they’ll just ignore it and move on, for that’s what I do. I was under the impression that your shit-o-meter of writing would be receiving 2 likes instead of the normal 6. How wrong was I…
Needless to say, I didn’t trash the piece, but I was planning to write a long, sincere, apologetic letter to this lady. Instead I wrote this.
I do want to apologize if some of my stories might come across as offensive to certain people. But they’re my stories. Little creations resembling fragments of my soul that I’m trying to brighten up with words and squirts of funny on my little canvas of the Internet. It’s me finding my niche. My own style of writing. And I write because I love it.
But more importantly I write because I want my kids to know me better. As a person. To understand certain idiosyncrasies and nuances of their Father; that might get lost in the daily scurrying of parenting. I want them to have a sense of who I am, with all my flaws, and all my hopes, and all my twisted humour.
Maybe someday they’ll have a complete picture when they slot all the puzzles pieces together. They’ll understand how much I love them and what major influence they had on my views of life. And hopefully Son and Princess wouldn’t blame me too much for the mental scaring I’m probably doing whilst trying to raise them.
And I remain apologetic if I do write something offensive to anyone who might end up reading it. But I will continue to write them. My stories, that is.
I am less than pleasant when I wake up in the morning. I am Grumpy, Sleepy, Dopey and Shitty all in one. The thought of an alarm clock shattering the silent night evokes feelings of anger and dread, similar to those I had when I tried to finish 50 Shades of Crap.
I don’t mind if a wake up from a pleasant slumber, WITHOUT the assistance of an alarm, but the early shrieks of that little piece of shit, every weekday, is enough to make me want to murder someone.
‘Cause it happens at 04h30. ‘Cause I go to the gym.
And that’s when all sympathy, empathy and other kind emotions evaporates in milliseconds. For it is self inflicted. And people don’t like sadists. Unless they’re called Christian Grey, and “He’s naked except for those soft ripped jeans, top button casually undone.” (Which is an actual quote. From the book. That made billions. Really?)
My go-to-reason for putting myself through the ordeal of attempting excessive exercise that early in the morning would be that the gym it less busy in the mornings. *insert high pitched ending as proof of uncertainty and madness* And don’t worry, I heard you, mister! I heard you mumbling under your breath, “That’s still not a fucking good reason.”
But I understand, because for a normal, average person my choices might seem borderline insane.
“Good evening, My name is Pieter and I don’t have a life.”
The point is actually, once you stop judging me, that during the hour at the gym I actually manage to gain some kind of personality. I start resembling a human, one that has the potential of being a loving husband and a great father. (I am using the word “potential” here.) It seems that there is a cosmic trade-off discussed by the gods of fitness and humanity. Receiving payment by virtue of blood, sweat and tears in exchange for common decency and giddiness.
For I start every morning session as one of the Grumpy Old Men and miraculously leave the gym as a chorus line singer in any referent Disney Movie. It’s probably the reason why the receptionist hasn’t looked me in the eye, in the almost nine years I’ve been going there. She considers my irrational behaviour to be an infectious disease.
I think I endure my hour of hell because it allows me to lose an evil façade and replaces it with a bright red smiley face, courtesy of copious amounts of sweat. I end up driving home, without the nervous twitch I had when I was driving in the opposite direction. And the people whom I almost killed on their bikes an hour earlier, can actually relax for their safety is not an issue anymore.
I enter the house with a hop and a skip, I kiss the frightened dog on his nose and shout a “Good morning Dude” to my son, hiding in the study. I offer coffee to the whole neighbourhood. And that is pretty amazing.
For the opposite would be those awful days where I wake up too late and cannot alter my mood. Running around like an escapee from Arkhum Asylum. Avoided by the wife, kids, even our gay poodle. All of them scuttling away, praying for me too leave the house quickly. I end up being the most annoyed son of a bitch (sorry mom) you’ll ever have the misfortune to meet. And I’m not proud of it. That’s why I go. To the gym. At the crack of dawn. For I know I’m NOT a morning person.
The villain waking up, turning into the World Greatest Hero after an hour at the gym. It seems my temporary schizophrenia resembles Two-Face, who, for all the Jocks following me, is the famous villain from Batman. The only difference is that he flips a coin to determine his state of mind, whilst I require one hour of heavy lifting to gain something that resembles a personality.
They say “No pain No gain”, but it does seem odd that the same rules for feeling happy too.
Note to my readers:- Wine does the same thing…
A mother takes twenty years to make a man of her boy, and another woman makes a fool of him in twenty minutes.
Can. This. Really. Be. Happening? Can. Life. Really. Be. This. Splendid?
To say I’m surprised, would be the understatement of mankind. It would be wrong in the same context as calling Kanye West an inspiration. I need somebody to slap me with a keyboard… For I might be hallucinating. I seems that I have just gotten my 400th follower!
And that is F*CKING awesome! (Sorry, but the f-bomb IS necessary here)