Archive for January, 2014

Ah, fucksticks.

Always the best way to start a conversation. What’s up?

I think I may be engaged.

No, I can hear you just fine.

What?

Ubani lo? What telecommunications service are you using? MTN? Vodacom? Don’t tell me you’re on Cell C.

I don’t-

You’re on Cell C, right? You cretin. Don’t you know about Vodacom’s quality packages? Really, I thought you would be better informed about this. It’s why we have the Consumer Protection Act.

No, retard. I’m not even talking to you on my phone. You’re a voice in my head.

Thanks for making me question my existence now.

Anyway. I meant engaged as in getting married, hitched, the whole shebang.

*Silence*

Well, I must admit that this is a bit unexpected.

I would say-

I mean, especially with you being such a vocal proponent of never getting married and whatnot.

I don’t want to get-

When were you going to tell me?

I-

Who’s your best man?

don’t-

Can I get you a Vodacom starter package with R29 airtime as a wedding gift?

Can I get you a tall glass of shut the fuck up?

Brrrr. Marriage changed you man. I suggest you and your old lady watch some Dr Phil together or something.

I AM NOT GETTING MARRIED. Not on purpose, anyway.

Ah, an arranged marriage, huh? Well, when in India…

Something like that. You see these villagers here?

The ones that have been staring at you having a conversation with a voice in your head? Yep, I see them.

Anyway, they seem to have mistaken me for a famous Indian actor and have now offered/forced me into marriage with one of their village girls.

Which famous Indian actor?

I-

Is it Katrina Kaif? I can see the resemblance.

Clearly it’s the sparkling eyes and alluring cheekbones. Clearly.

Clearly it’s the sparkling eyes and alluring cheekbones. Clearly.

 

Actually… I think that they think I’m Pi.

That’s racist, man. It’s the Africans that are uncivilized cannibals. Get your facts straight before you judge, asshole.

Pi from the movie Life of Pi you fucking nitwit.

Ohhh. Come to think of it, you do resemble the intrepid lifeboat survivor.

It’s the hair, right?

Totally.

And my raw animal magnetism.

Let’s not get carried away. Well, that would explain the tiger.

Yes, I suppose it would. Actually, it doesn’t.

Tyga, tyga, burning bright Gold teeth shining in the night Choon whaat immortal hand or eye Could get you in a GTI?

Tyga, tyga, burning bright
Gold teeth shining in the night
Choon whaat immortal hand or eye
Could get you in a GTI?

 

What do you mean? It’s wholly apparent that as the supposed Pi, these kind villagers expect you to tame the tiger as a test of your skill in order to win the village sweetheart’s hand in marriage.

Well, what if I can’t tame the fucking tiger due to my having absolutely no experience with colossal pussies whatsoever?

Well, I wouldn’t say no experience… I mean, you did come out of your mother.

Can you stop with the shitty mom jokes and maybe give me some fucking advice on how to not fucking die like you’re fucking supposed to?

Ease up on the hostility man. Tigers can smell anger. Or fear. Or something. The first thing that I’m gonna need you to do is think happy thoughts. Nobody likes a Happy Meal besides fat people, like your mother.

What the fuck? Are you sure?

I’m positive, man. Now I need you to be too.

Ok…

Great! See, the tiger looks even more infuriated already because you’re depriving him of his meal. Good show, old chap. Secondly, I’m gonna need you to take off all your clothes.

Are you fucking shitting me?!?

No, you seem to be doing a fine job of that yourself. Look man, my expertise in this field is based on fictional men that staved off terrible tigers. Mowgli and Shere Khan. Pi and Richard Parker. The fat guy from the Hangover and Mike Tyson’s tiger. Now what did they have in common? They were all NAKED.

Zach Galifianikis was not naked.

And look what happened to him – he got knocked the fuck out by Mike Tyson! Do you want to get knocked out by Mike Tyson? Do you value your ears? This is a man whose only enemy is the letter “s”. Thtrip, motherfucker.

Ok… Now what?

I don’t know. I can’t believe you just got bare-ass naked in front of a fucking tiger.

Jesus fuck.

I think a more appropriate expression would be Noah fuck.

*Silence*

Or Noah f-ark. Hehehe.

*More silence*

Sorry… maybe you should just marry the poor girl.

No.

I could teach you some sick Indian pickup lines. Like: Hey baby, do you want Dabangg?

Fuck you.

Or: Hey girl, are your rotis round?

Suck my dick.

Do you have a twin? Have you been reincarnated? Perhaps this girl is your long-forgotten best friend that you’ve named your daughter after? I hear all of the above are guaranteed to karma any Hindu Love Goddess’s sutra.

Eat shit and die.

Woah. Fine, I won’t Pillay with you; I can see you’re not in the Moodley.

Shut up. Just shut up. What’s happening now?

Hmm… it appears as if they’re taking the tiger away.

That’s good news.

It appears as if they’re taking the girl away too.

That’s even better news.

Now it appears as if they’re getting ready to sacrifice you to Kali or something.

What?! Why?!

Apparently it’s highly offensive in the Indian culture to get naked and jiggle your gilli-danda about whilst muttering to yourself. Didn’t you know that? This is like Indiana Jones 101. You really need to educate yourself, man.

But that was your fucking idea!

And it worked, no? The tiger and the prospective bride are gone. My work here is done.

But…

Mum-bye-bye motherfucker.

 

Congratulations on finishing this advice column! You are now no longer in danger of being potentially married or eaten by a ferocious wild cat. Should you require any further advice, please consult our next guide:  So you’ve accidentally infuriated a tribe of angry villagers and are now running frantically for your life.

 

[As you probably already know – or don’t know, depending on whether or not you stalk me – I recently spent two weeks traversing the terrain of what is marketed these days as Incredible India. It was, in a word, incredible. Now that’s what I call effective marketing. Pull up a chair and goddamn see for yourself, Cell C. Anyway, I got into countless misadventures and some downright hilarious situations, all of which I shall try my utmost to document as part of my New Year’s resolution to write more. This is despite me knowing that New Year’s resolutions are things that go in one year and out the other. Anyway, credit where credit is due: I wrote this piece in the distinctive style of Chris Bucholz from Cracked.com, because I thoroughly enjoy reading his pieces in this format and decided to go for broke and give it a shot myself. He’s also definitely maybe the funniest writer there. Perhaps after Seanbaby. For more of the funniest writer on this site, subscribe to my blog and follow me on Twitter @MibHatesUsAll]

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