Archive for September, 2013

I have a publicist. His name is Ken. He is bald. He also has a great bohemian office with a really comfortable couch somewhere in downtown LA which is where I found myself waiting for him, sans shoes, when I was greeted by these words:

“MiB, what the fuck is this?”

“That, my good man, is a Facebook friend request. I’m surprised – as my publicist, a knowledgeable groovy, bald-headed suit like yourself should be acquainted with such digital bonds of friendship. What the hell do I not pay you for?”

He grunted and sat down behind his giant bohemian desk. He’s quite a bohemian man, Ken.

“I know what it is, you munt. Fucking hell, I go to Poland for two weeks sabbatical and my entire clientele shits the bed. I’ve got you poking me on one end, the Achy Breaky Tart twerking her way through Tinseltown on the other and fucking Kanye having a Twitter tantrum against Jimmy Kimmel because he doesn’t understand the concept of satire.”

“Well, we are talking about a man that named his offspring after a jazz album.”

Who knew Kanye was such an Elvis Costello fan?

Who knew Kanye was such an Elvis Costello fan?

“Besides, what the fuck are you on about? Kanye and Kimmel aren’t your clients.”

“Not any more, they aren’t. Conflict of interest states that I’m going to have to dump one of their black asses if I’m going to save the other.”

“Well, I guess Wheezy Yeezy can consider his ‘black ass’ kicked to the curb.”

“Ah, but you consider wrong. Whilst Kanye might think that leather jogging pants are the best thing since Kanye, he’s a goddamn prodigy. Yeezus was hailed as a “chutzpah classic” and a “brilliant, obsessive-compulsive career auto-correct”. It debuted at #1 in 34 countries. He’s got 21 Grammys – which is incredible – and claims to have fucked 24 grammies including mine, which is slightly less incredible. Say what you like about Kanye, but the man is a creative genius and he fucking sells.

Kimmel, on the other hand, is a two-bit rip-off of David Letterman. Jay Leno is funnier than him, and breast cancer is funnier than Jay Leno. I’ve watched better talk shows on Cartoon Network. He has less than a third of Kanye’s Twitter followers. I’ve had kettles that could outwit him. For fuck’s sake, the man was bested by a stationary car. So I’m gonna have to side with Kanye on this one.”

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“Well, Ken, you just made the best choice of all time! OF ALL TIME! By the way, who the fuck goes to Poland to relax? What exactly were you doing there, Ken? Moonlighting as an albino gigolo? I hear the Poles like skinheads. Good thing you’re not circumcised then, hey? Go on, I won’t judge.”

“I was getting laid and getting paid, two things that you know a sum total of fuckall about.”

“Woah, calm your Farmville man. That was a good insult though. Very witty. I think I might be getting a broner from just how amazing that was.”

“A what?”

“A broner. A non-sexual male-inspired boner. Watch some Californication once in a while, you damn Luddite. Also, you’re fired.”

“Well, that’s just fine and fucking dandy by me, since you’ve brought in less money than a charity for Al-Qaeda. Let’s see just how far you get without a fucking publicist. You might even end up paying WordPress to host a blog that you rarely write for – oh wait…”

“You make a compelling case. You’re hired.”

“I thought so. Now would you mind telling me why in the name of Mark Fuckerburg I have a friend request from you on Facebook?”

I shifted around uneasily on the couch.

“Ah. That. Well, you see, I thought that it would be a good way to ‘get myself out there’. Let the fans get to know me for who I am. Make a few friends here, poke a few people there, drive a poor fat teenage girl to suicide somewhere else. Good idea, no?”

“MiB. We know who you are. You’re a cunt. You’re not only a cunt. You’re an asshole too. And a dick. In fact, you’re a cunt and an asshole and a dick and the tiny piece of skin between these assorted genitalia on whatever poor godforsaken hermaphrodite I’m comparing you to at the moment. We know this. We accept this. We love this.”

“It’s called the perineum, I believe.”


“The space between the asshole and the dick-slash-cunt. The correct biological term for such anatomy is the perineum. Highly erogenous zone too, I’ve been told.”

“You can take my word for it. Your girlfriend does a remarkably good job tonguing mine every night.”

“Hold up a second, Ken, can you hear that? Just listen for a sec – it sounds like the sea… Jesus Ken, it’s coming from your pants! Not only do you have sand in your vagina, it seems like you have an entire fucking ocean down there!”

“Well played.”

“Thank you. You might want to close your legs though, I think I see Willy trying to get free.”

“Charming. But let’s get serious for a moment – you just told me that you got Facebook to ‘make friends and poke people’, correct?”


“Right. You do realize that your entire persona, up to this present moment in time, is based on you hating every form of social media ever invented?”

“Well, yes-“

“Christ, do you remember what happened the last time you ventured into social media? Has your anal cavity recovered from Trevor’s Torpedo? No wonder you’re lying on the couch, you probably still can’t stand up straight.”

“I’ll have you know that Trevor is a remarkably affectionate and caring lover. He just slides right in. We’re very happy together.”

“Good to know. I’ll have Martha send over some roses and Astroglide.”

“Much obliged. But to be perfectly honest and somewhat plagiaristic: the times, they are a-changing. Writers live to be read. Having someone tell you that your writing is good is one of the best feelings in the world – on par with having your perineum played with. It hits all the pleasure centres; it’s positively rhapsodic. I need more people to see what a rockstar writer and generally awesome human being I am. Facebook is a means to getting my shit out there, to put on display all these brilliant little turds of writing that I’m so proud of. It’s the way to show the world that I’m the Hank Moody of my generation.”

“You’re the Hank Moody of staying sober and keeping it in your pants.”

“And you’re bald. Now who’s worse off?”

“Still you, mate. Well, I can see where you’re coming from-“

“Is it North West?”

“-and whilst I think you, by some incredible stroke of luck, may be able to pull it off, I still don’t see why you didn’t ask me before starting an account and then posting a shitty-ass picture of you at Sensation White.”

“But you were off getting your heads polished by the Polish, Ken. Besides, I thought it would be a good avenue of self-promotion and whatnot.”

“Self-promotion? Why the fuck would you hire me if you’re so good at promoting yourself, Ari Gold?”

“You make a valid point. Congratulations Ken, you’ve just fired yourself. Go on, give yourself a pat on your shiny white pate.”

“Fuck you MiB. Fuck you and your cocky attitude and smart-ass comments. Nobody gives a fuck that you made it into Mensa and taught yourself how to fingerbang a Rubik’s cube. People don’t give a fuck about that or your lamentations on LO and Lebanon. You know what’s wrong with the world today?”

I got up from the couch, walked over slowly, looked him straight in the eye and said, solemnly:

“Bald people, I suppose.”

Then I gave him a hug and a rub on the head for good luck and ran out of his office as fast as I could.

[Well, there you have it. I am now on the Facebook. I am also on the Twitter. My the Twitter is @MibHatesUsAll. Fuck yeah. The Social Media is my bitch]



Posted: September 2, 2013 in MiB Hates Us All

I’m back, bitches.

And I’ve got a whole lot of pent-up hate that’s been boiling and frothing and churning just beneath the surface and now it’s time to Krakatoa shit up.

I admit, I’ve taken a rather long sabbatical from writing, but it has not been in the pursuit of fruitless hedonism; on the contrary, my hedonistic endeavours have been rather tutti-frutti indeed. Life’s been hectic. In the past few months, I’ve popped my cherry on several entrepreneurial ventures, traversed the cultural cesspool of Europe, autodidacted the hell out of acoustic guitar, joined MENSA, have a tentative writer/editor position for a fledgling Joburg magazine, been followed by Yoko Ono on Twitter (I’ll be fucked if I ever figure out the reason behind that) and taken up bear-punching. All while trying to pass the most sphincter-shrinking degree ever designed for humanoid life-forms.

Seriously, if there are any neo-Nazi Qaeda Mormons out there that wanna enslave a nation, forget genocide or concentration camps. Accounting is the way to go. Then you’ll have a Liquorice All-Sorts of accountants, actuaries and other assorted human dialtones. Debit: Happiness, Peace, Sanity. Credit: Misery, Melancholy, Baldness. You could even outsource to other despots – Al-Qaeda Accountants: where your holy books are always balanced!

Later in this accounting period I hopefully head off to Gaza and I’ve decided to try and get John Lennon’s Spirit to follow me on Twitter too, because imagine that reunion… It’s easy if you try…

Anyway, in my absence, a fuckton of things have passed on by that have not received the required amount of hate. I mean, come on, people. I leave you for a few months to hate things by yourself and the next thing you know motherfucking Ben Affleck is cast as Batman? Someone really dropped the fucking Batball over there.

The real miscarriage of justice and goodwill, however, is the hard-earned money I paid last night to watch the clusterfuck called Elysium.

For those of you who haven’t watched it, I would say SPOILER ALERT, but this isn’t the goddamn Tonight section and let’s face it, you love my writing too much to stop now.

It seems as if anything with South Africans in it is destined for corruption, because Elysium’s trailer promised me a radical, exciting movie chutney-packed with action and drama and futuristic technology with well-written characters and great actors. “BY THE SAME GUY THAT GAVE YOU AND WITH THE SAME GUY THAT WAS IN DISTRICT 9, THE GREATEST SOUTH AFRICAN MEDIA SINCE EGOLI” was basically the movie’s tagline. So imagine my surprise when I actually sat down to watch the movie and got the Zuma special. I felt so vilified that I went home and stood in the shower with the lights off, because Eskom and outdated jokes, because South Africa.

Elysium has a well-used yet brilliant premise. It’s Earth in the future, Year 2154, diseased, polluted, over-populated. The rich bastards took one look at all the poor people around them, winced in that rich people way, then looked up at space, liked what they saw and put a ring in it. Then they all went for high tea and ate platinum-crusted caviar and drank dolphin tears. I’m just spitballing here and assuming that’s what rich bastards do. There’s a massive inequality between the people on Earth and the Elysium assholes, and we know that Matt Damon’s character Max Somebody is going to somehow make his way to Elysium from Earth and hopefully bring peace and equality whilst going Jason Bourne on some motherfuckers that try their very best to preserve their elitist way of life. Lots of action, straight-forward, no Boksburg accents. I would have enjoyed that movie.

OR Matt Damon tries to get to Elysium, makes it, delivers some dramatic speech after going Francois Pienaar on some motherfuckers and is offered a place on Elysium – but just for him, and he takes it, because now he’s one of the in-crowd, and power corrupts, and fuck poor people. Good twist, would’ve watched and enjoyed that too.

OR he just gets his neck snapped like a twig, because rich people get ALL THE THINGS, ALWAYS, and the story ends on a powerful, thought-provoking and poetic schadenfroh note – great movie as well. Fuck, I should just move to Hollywood now. Instead, we got this clusterphuck (I spelt it with a “ph” this time because this is a family-friendly blog).

Firstly, Elysium in Greek mythology is the place at the ends of the Earth to which certain favoured heroes were conveyed by the gods after death. The director took that paradisiac concept and came up with a ring. Zeus’ cockring, only a few light-years from Uranus. But ok, I can suspend my erotic shame and accept the ring, no doubt just one of many toys in Zeus’ collection.

Then we have the futuristic technology. Machines on Elysium can cure any and all diseases, but only if you’re a citizen. We see a woman scanned and diagnosed with traces of cancer and old-lady disease and who is literally cured before our eyes. This is important – keep this in mind.

Matt Damon’s character follows a pretty standard and expected arc – his dream is to get up to Elysium, but he was a bad man, but he’s a bad man no more, he gets fucked up, the only way he can be cured is one of the Medical Miracle Machines, Bob Loblaw. Point is, we all know he’s going to Elysium, so why the fuck does it take so long for him to get there??? The movie takes about two-thirds to deliver useless and stupid backstory, all which leads up to the one thing we know that’s going to happen. It’s shitty storytelling. If Mark Twain were alive, he would straight up punch Mr Blomkamp. In the vagina. With a typewriter.


District 9 was fucking incredible, ok? We watched it, we loved it, we recognised the landmarks and more importantly, the haunting satire of the movie. That doesn’t mean you have to now use South Africans in every goddamn movie you now make, Mr Blomkamp. As much as it pains me to say it, some things are just better without a South African influence. Like baseball – that’s America’s thing. We have cricket – let them have it. And sushi – that’s Japan’s thing. We have Akhalwayas – let them have it. And embalming your revolutionary leader and putting him on public display – I’m begging you, let’s leave that to the Russians.

We did not need to hear AH’VE ALWAYS WANTED A WAAF or Sharlto Copley singing Jan Pierewiet in its entirety. Neill Blomkamp wrote and directed this movie, which means that at some point in the creative process, he wrote down the words “WE CAN SORT ALL THIS KAK IN YOUR HEAD OUT, BRU” AND directed his actor on how to deliver that line AND watched it during editing AND still thought that was perfectly fine. I need to get me some of the shit he was on. Lien se Lankstaanskoene had better dialogue and that movie was about a girl that becomes a hobo on purpose.

That’s about it for the ranting. Just one or two final points: if you take a fucking grenade to the face, you and your brain are a motherfucking Kauai smoothie. It is physically impossible for someone to have an explosive sucker-punch them in the face and then have a rugged boer tell us minutes later “HIS FACE IS FAAKED, BUT HIS BRAIN IS INTACT”. I don’t give a rat’s ass about suspension of disbelief, you are fucking DEAD, and nothing short of Jesus, Vishnu and the Flying Spaghetti Monster coming down from a Nirvana concert in Heaven is going to save you.

Finally, the disasterpiece opens with something to the effect of “2154: EARTH IS DISEASED, POLLUTED AND OVERPOPULATED”. “OVERPOPULATED” being the operative word. It then ends with all the Medical Miracle Machines being brought to Earth to cure all the diseased poor people. You know what happens when you cure everyone on Earth that’s sick or dying? They don’t fucking die anymore, that’s what.

I won’t be surprised if Blomkamp announces a sequel soon – VALHALLA: featuring Shaleen Surtie-Richards and Apollo’s buttplug.