Archive for the ‘MiB Hates Us All’ Category

[So this is Ramadan, and what have we done? Another month over, and a new one near begun… Fear not, random citizen, I’m not about to go all ISIS John Lennon on your ass – but in lieu of recent world events that rank right next to Gary Busey on the batshit crazy scale, I think that humanity can collectively agree that “What have we done?” is a pretty damn good question to be asking ourselves right now. Between Malaysian Airlines tragically losing not only another plane but also a motherfucking tanker to hijackers and another plane crashing in Taiwan just today, it’s been a pretty terrible week for Asian transport in general. ISIS have stepped up the insanity by expelling the entire Christian population of Mosul in Iraq and Transformers 4 grossed over $890 million, which I think is the final kick in the nuts for humanity’s collective conscience against evil. But even that doesn’t compare to the injustice currently being carried out in Gaza. Mercilessly killing over 400 civilians, many of whom are women and children, and then excusing your actions by blabbering “human shields” and “rockets” over and over again like some spastic record player ranks right up there with Catfishing and War Crimes on the scale of “Shitty Things to do to your Fellow Human Being”. Thus, I decided to write a piece combining the two things weighing most heavily on my mind – namely food and the crisis in Gaza – the product of which I humbly present to you. Enjoy]

 

Recipes for Democrazy

Israeli Falafel

[“Adopted” as the official national dish of Israel, just like the “adoption” of everything else Palestinian]

 

Drink serving suggestion: Tears of Palestinian orphans. Alternatively, grape juice.

 

Ingredients:

1 cup dried chickpeas

1 large onion, chopped.

2 cloves of garlic, also chopped.

3 tablespoons of fresh parsley, you guessed it, chopped.

2 tablespoons flour, unchopped.

1 teaspoon coriander.

1 teaspoon cumin.

Self-righteous attitude.

Fallacious arguments.

Oil for frying.

 

Preparation:

  1. Place the dried chickpeas in a bowl and cover them with cold water. Allow to soak overnight. In the meantime, proceed with your usual nightly activities, such as watching Gaza get bombed.
  2. Drain the chickpeas, place in a pan with fresh water and bring to a boil.
  3. Allow to boil for 5 minutes, then simmer on low heat for about an hour, after which drain and allow to cool for 15 minutes.
  4. Mistime everything and repeat steps 1-3.
  5. I know you forgot to buy the cumin but that’s ok.
  6. Combine the chickpeas, chopped garlic, chopped onion and chopped parsley in a medium bowl. Add some of your unchopped flour to this concoction. Don’t worry how much. Cooking is an intuitive skill. See the flour. Feel the flour. Be the flour.
  7. Come up with a satisfactory excuse for when your significant other walks in on you “being flour”.
  8. Mash the chickpeas, ensuring to mix the ingredients together. You want the result to be a thick paste. You can also combine the ingredients in a food processor, but only if you haven’t been banned from electric kitchen appliances like yours truly. I once started a kitchen fire whilst trying to make toast, but that’s another story [SEE: Recipes for Democrazy, French Toast in a Toaster]
  9. You were supposed to add the coriander in with everything else before mashing. Fuck. My bad, guys. Throw the coriander away.
  10. Form the mixture into small balls, about the size of a ping-pong ball. Flatten slightly.
  11. Notice that three of your handmade chickpea balls have gone missing.
  12. Go absolutely ballistic. Blame your neighbours for stealing your balls then invade their home. Arrest and/or shoot the man of the house. “Accidentally” murder/maim his wife and kids for good measure. Blame the “collateral” damage on the man for using his family as human shields, then bomb the house [recipes for explosives not included in this cookbook, see: Recipes for Revolution, also by me]
  13. Have your cronies at the local news agency spin the story. Proclaim that you did it in the name of God’s falafel if you must. Bring up Anti-Semitism if asked for comment. Then go back home.
  14. Realize that you had actually miscounted the number of balls you had originally made and that they are all there.
  15. Shrug.
  16. Heat some oil in a large pan.
  17. Fry the first batch of falafel in the oil.
  18. Burn the first batch of falafel in the oil.
  19. Fry the second batch of falafel in the oil, taking care to NOT burn it this time. Maybe if you time yourself frying it, for like 2-3 minutes, that would help. The falafel should be golden brown on the outside once fried.
  20. Remove your falafel from the oil using a slotted spoon and place on a serving plate.
  21. Season with salt, pepper and self-righteousness to taste.
  22. Add some hot sauce or hummus to your falafel balls or place them in a pita, I don’t really give a shit.
  23. Garnish with those weird plant things that you always find on restaurant dishes (not listed in ingredients)
  24. Serve hot, making sure to eat your falafel in plain sight of your neighbours’ mourning family.

 

And there you have it!

Be sure to check back for the next instalment in the Recipes for Democracy series, South African Boerewors (own firepool required) followed by A Single Peanut from Ethiopia.

 

[This piece was inspired by a post on cracked.com by Dan O’ Brien, and the falafel recipes were sourced from here and here. Just to be crystal clear: I do not condone any form of discrimination against any human being whatsoever, whether that discrimination takes the form of anti-Semitism or Islamophobia or homophobia or any –ism or –phobia that involves the subjugation of some human beings under other human beings.  I am vehemently anti-the-Israeli-government because of its oppressive apartheid policies against the people of Palestine as well as its ruthless brutality against the Gazan civilians, the same way I am anti-ISIS or anti-Saudi or anti-any-human-rights-violators. Follow me on Twitter @MibHatesUsAll for more amazing recipes and follow @AliAbunimah or @RemRoum for updates on the crisis in Gaza. Also follow @BDSsouthafrica for details on how you can contribute to the Palestinian struggle and if you are a student at WITS, come through tomorrow to the Library Lawns on East Campus at 13:15 to assist in painting an enormous banner as a show of solidarity.  

Finally, I have some closing words on the situation in Gaza: The images of children lying broken and battered on the beach and streets of Gaza, of mothers screaming and fathers sobbing silently over tiny bodies drowning in white sheets, and of utter carnage – uncaring, unceasing, unnecessary – speak a thousand words of pain, of misery, of man at his lowest form.  There’s no going back after this. If any good has come out of this latest saga of brutality perpetrated by the Israeli government, it’s that people – not governments, but common people – around the world have united to take a stand against the atrocities being committed in Gaza. From the streets of Seoul to the pavements of Paris to the cobblestones of Istanbul to the bridges of Jozi, we have come together as one to stand in solidarity with the Palestinians. And it won’t end after the IDF’s bloodlust in Gaza is temporarily sated. Eyes have been opened. Hearts have bled compassion. If we as the global community allow Israel to return to its status quo of daily oppression, we have lost. The tipping point has been reached. Injustice will be conquered. This is the beginning of the end]

 

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The Hollow People

Posted: July 2, 2014 in MiB Hates Us All

[So, I recently succumbed to immense and intense pressure from my peers (both imaginary and real) and downloaded Instagram. I’m not proud of it. I don’t intend on using it for anything other than lamenting the fact that we have the entire history of human knowledge in the palm of our hands and as a collective species we have chosen to use that technology to take selfies – and also to watch Snoop Dogg’s fucking insane Instagram videos. I’m a masochist like that. Anyway, what follows is a short story I wrote inspired by Instagram, its users and the general sad state of affairs in which we find ourselves during these dark and dismal days. It’s different to my usual style of writing, but not inferior in any sense, for there is no such thing as my lesser work – enjoy]

She was a twenty-something gym-addict free-soul flower-child, a trivial figure in a trifling world. She would often stop not only to smell the roses but to Instagram them too. She had led what most would call a privileged life, peppered with ponies and parties and princess-like things. She was beautiful in the way advertisements are beautiful – airbrushed and filtered layers coating a photoshopped personality at her core. She could make up her face but not her mind. If you asked her what her hopes and dreams were, she would say something along the lines of the typical white picket fence dream interspersed with the word “bae” and then #RelationshipGoals.

He was a twenty-something part-time model that could best be described as a child in a man’s body. He cared for nothing and everything at the same time; he was noble in thought yet weak in action. The sides of his head were shaved and he had a combover that was parted so sharply, one would think that his barber’s name was Moses. It was, by the way. He frequented a hair salon in the middle of Braamfontein under the guise of seeming more in tune with urban vibes. He was neither handsome nor beautiful and in fact looked like something that fell off the outside of a church, but his practised charm and oft-rehearsed lines easily seduced the drunk and the damned. His pastimes included seeing and being seen at premier events, scouring GoodReads for deep, dark and mysterious quotes to tweet and getting laid and getting paid.

They met on a park bench one fine summer’s day when she asked him for a light.

He looked up at her, momentarily startled from his intense gazing at his Twitter timeline as he feverishly refreshed it in the hopes that somebody would retweet his latest offering to the Twitterverse. He acquiesced to her polite request, of course, because denying someone the use of your lighter ranks up there with the Holocaust and broadcasted BBM messages on the list of dickish things to do. He watched her intently as she lit her cigarette, transfixed by her elegant extensions and her made-up face and the manner in which she lit it which was clearly based on an Angelina Jolie character in some long-forgotten movie. His thumb never stopped its downward flicking as he drank in her artificial beauty.

She sat down on the park bench next to him and flashed him a smile that was neither rare nor particularly well-done, for that matter. He returned it with a pre-programmed smirk reserved for photoshoots and parties and picking up potential.

“Hey there, stranger,” she said. “Hey yourself,” he replied.

They sat and spoke of mediocre things like the weather and celebrities and the meaning of life.

“You know, the Native Americans believe that a part of your soul is lost every time a photo is taken of you,” he said to her, parroting something he had just read on Twitter between his frantic fingering as she took a selfie.

“Maybe I don’t have any more soul left to lose,” she replied esoterically, as she took a sip of her Vitamin Water.

And then something happened.

A moment passed between them as they both stared into the other’s eyes and felt a yearning to scream into the other’s soul. To bleed out through the cracks in the cold porcelain walls they had constructed around their cores. To suddenly grab hold of the other’s shoulders and rebel with a rebel yell of “I fucking love you!” or “I fucking hate you!” or to ask forbidden thing such as “Tell me something that makes you cry?” or “Would you go back and change your worst and best decisions if it would lead to a different yet unknown reality?”. One moment they were impenetrable, invincible, untouchable. The next, their hearts were somehow beating outside their chests, exposed to the elements. A moment passed between them that was raw and real, a moment of bright hot ashes amongst the musty dust, a moment in which they shone like magnificent meteors amongst the sleepy plastic planets, like photons exploding in a shower of yellow blazes-

A moment so real, it was surreal.

It passed, of course, as moments are wont to do, and they left each other shortly afterwards, unsure of what had happened.

Later that night she would post a cryptic Facebook status detailing her experience in words that didn’t quite fit and then wait for the litany of likes to flood in.

Later that night he would tweet the lyrics of a song, possibly the Beatles but probably Drake, relating somewhat to his experience, his thumb constantly flicking downwards, never leaving the screen.

 

[So there you have it. Mucho appreciato to @SeriFairy for her stellar and rigorous editing work on not only this piece, but all of my previous work she has edited. Head over to her blog at overthewoods.wordpress.com to check out some of her writing. Follow me on Twitter @MibHatesUsAll. Don’t follow me on Instagram @MibHatesUsAll. Like mibhatesusall.com on Facebook for updates on my writing. Friend me on Facebook and I will post an ad on Gumtree for discounted One Direction tickets with your contact details. Try me, motherfuckers]

The Basement Brothers

Posted: May 12, 2014 in MiB Hates Us All

[Beloved readers, I think that in lieu of the past couple of weeks’ events, we can come to the conclusion that Muslim people are the living embodiment of Murphy’s Law. If something is going wrong in the world, you can rest assured that there is a Muslim person involved, somehow. Major kidnapping in an African country? Yeah, it’s the Muslims. Halaal meat being sold to unwitting Brits? Muslims again. Some asshole with a bad haircut and dressed in skinny jeans left his GTI blaring ghetto music outside a mosque? Ok, I think we can chalk that one up to Indian male teenagers in general. But still, these damn Muslims, man. Like, who would condone the kidnapping and selling of innocent female students into slavery? Oh, what’s that, you say? NOT Muslims? Muslims are actually condemning the obscene acts of a power-hungry warlord that’s simply using Islam as a blanket made from the skin of scapegoats? That’s a shocker. Anyway, to address the recent events that have been occurring on our beloved cosmic rock,  I have written a satirical script about the monthly meeting of a “radical Islamist group”, very much in the vein of the movie Four Lions. I even stole one of the main character’s names. Fucking Muslims, right? Enjoy]

 

[Open on a dimly-lit basement. Faint voices can be heard off screen. Arabic books fill the shelves which line the musty brick walls. A Persian rug or three is placed in a corner, next to which lies a washing machine and a drying rack with several pairs of underwear drip-drying. Above the blackboard is a sign which reads “THE CAVE” in ominous lettering. Five men walk onto the screen, four of which seat themselves in a semi-circle around the obvious leader, a handsome man with a dazzling smile and unfortunately more beard than brain]

 

Mufti: As-salaamu-alaikum brothers, and welcome to the monthly meeting of the Five Lions group of Mujahideen Fighters. Now we have a lot to get through, so let us not dilly-dally and move on swiftly. Brother Yunus’ mother has kindly offered us chicken samoosas and Pepsi as refreshments, so please help yourselves. Brother Iqbal will be taking down the minutes. Brother Yusuf will be recording this meeting for future reference. Brot- Yusuf, what are you doing with the camera?

[A brown bearded man’s face fills the camera. He smiles.]

Yusuf: I’m taking a selfie.

Waj: That’s haraam bro.

[A loud bang followed swiftly by a high-pitched scream is heard off-screen and the camera drops suddenly. Brother Yunus has apparently shot Brother Yusuf with a pellet gun]

Mufti: Yunus, why did you shoot Yusuf?!?

Yunus: Because Brother Waj said it was haraam!

Waj: But it is haraam!

Mufti: Waj, your thought process should be haraam. And Yunus , stop shooting the brothers please. That’s the third one this month. Shooting Muslims for no reason is haraam too, you know… DON’T SHOOT YOURSELF! … Right. Onto the matters at hand. I am pleased to report that the kidnapping mission in Nigeria by our brothers in Boko Haram was a tremendous success. 274 girls have been kidnapped, some of whom have been sold as brides to men in neighbouring states.

Yusuf: Mashallah

Yunus: Alhamdullilah

Waj: Yarhamakullah

Yunus: I didn’t sneeze.

Waj: Ok, I retract my Yarhamakullah.

Iqbal: But why did we do that?

Mufti: Excuse me?

Iqbal: I don’t understand. Can you just clarify something for me?

Mufti: Sure Brother Iqbal, we all know that you’re a few rukus short of a rakaat.

[Good natured laughing all around with only four teeth being shown]

Iqbal: We are Muslims, yes?

Mufti: I would hope so.

Iqbal: And we are fighting for the cause of Islam, yes?

Mufti: Again, yes.

Iqbal: So why did we kidnap innocent girls that were simply studying and then sell them off as slave brides? Where in the Qur’an does it say that we should do that? Did the Prophet (PBUH) condone such actions? Isn’t that not allowed?

[Silence]

Mufti: Yes. No. Maybe. I don’t know. Can you repeat the question?

Waj: You’re not the boss of me now!

[Everybody stares icily at Waj, who decides to help himself to a samoosa ]

Yunus: I was also wondering… If what they’re doing is so Islamic, why do they have Haram in their name?

Yusuf: Exactly! Why can’t it be Boko Halaal?

Iqbal: That’s so stupid. The holiest mosque on earth is called Masjidul-Haraam, you know.

Yunus: Maybe it’s a Western plot.

Iqbal: Your mother is a Western plot.

Mufti: Brothers! Enough with this foolishness. Brother Iqbal, the reason for our Boko brothers kidnapping the girls is a simple one. These imprudent girls are being indoctrinated with the perilsof Western education and this must be stopped! How can we have womenfolk becoming doctors and lawyers and business executives?!? Every Muslim man worth his Menk knows that women that study and work become home-breakers instead of home-makers. This Malala nonsense must stop.

Iqbal: But then why did they sell off the girls? Why not keep them and teach them Islamic values…?

Mufti [mumbling]: The brothers at Boko are in tough financial times… donations have ceased ever since Brother Osama, you know…

Waj: More like Broko Haram

Yunus: Have you seen the way the West has reacted though? They think that this hashtag Bring Back Our Girls bullshit will actually amount to action.

Yusuf: We’re the new Kony 2012!

Yunus: LOL!

Mufti [eyebrows raised]: LOL?

Yunus [mumbling]: Labbaik Out Loud, I mean.

Waj: I find it very odd and rather hypocritical that Michelle Obama can put on a sad face and tell the world to “bring back our girls” when her own husband is ordering the death of women and children by drone in Afghanistan and Yemen

Mufti: That’s a very profound thought, Waj.

Waj: Thank you. I found it on Instagram.

Mufti: Speaking of Haraam and Halaal, have any of you been following the situation with the Halaal meat in the UK?

Yusuf: You mean where the infidels are having a hissy fit over being served Halaal meat?

Iqbal: I’m surprised that they care whether their chicken is halaal. Most British people don’t care whether their chicken is chicken.

Yunus: Apparently they think that eating Halaal meat automatically turns you into a Muslim

Iqbal: I had chicken tikka for lunch and now I’m a “fidel”.

Yusuf: I spread some Halaal mince on my toast, now I want to spread Islam by the sword!

Yunus: HA-LOL!

Iqbal: Last night I had a falafel and this morning I woke up with a beard and four wives!

Waj [confused]: But then why don’t I have four wives yet?

[stunned silence as everybody stares at Waj]

[Waj stares back, then helps himself to another samoosa]

Mufti: Right… before we conclude, does anyone have any last thoughts or comments that they would like to share?

Waj: I do.

[sighs all around]

Waj: I don’t understand why we’re doing what we’re doing. Boko Haram is saying that what they’re doing is in the name of Islam, right? And the West is saying the same thing. But kidnapping girls and selling them is not very Islamic, as far as I know. Yet, both sides are using Islam as a kind of… what’s the word, it’s something to do with a goat. [Scapegoat?] That’s right! Scapegoat. Boko Haram is saying that what they’re doing is Islamic because it’s an excuse to gain support from impressionable and impoverished young men. The West is saying that it’s Islamic because Muslims are the new Soviets and it’s good to have a common enemy to unite the masses against. The only people that are saying that it’s un-Islamic are actual everyday Muslims. Because it is. And with this whole Halaal meat thingy – it’s got nothing to do with animal welfare or animal rights. It’s blatant fear-mongering and Islamophobia, to again set the xylophonic [xenophobic, the word you’re looking for is xenophobic] masses against Muslims using the so-called “Islamization of Europe” argument. But the only people that really suffer are Muslims just trying to live their lives, day to day. It’s just very sad, you know.

Mufti [dismissively]: Another poignant thought from Brother Waj. Instagram again?

Waj: Tumblr this time.

Mufti: Mashallah. That concludes this meeting. Thank you all for coming. I think we should all thank Brother Yunus’ mother for the lovely samoosas on the way up. As-salaamu-alaikum.

 

[If you want to condemn me as Haraam, you can do so on Twitter @MibHatesUsAll. Also, I’ve set up a mibhatesusall.com Facebook page which you can “like” to stay updated and also donate to my ego.  Finally, my best friend has also started a blog, the literary awesomeness of which I can personally endorse – check it out at overthewoods.wordpress.com. Peace out] 

 

[Beloved readers! What’s up my nig-nogs? Is it all good in da hoo – fuck, I can’t do this. I’ll leave the Indian ghetto schtick to Kevin Gnapoor and the cast of Slumdog Millionaire, namean? Anyway, listen up yo: the WITS Palestinian Solidarity Committee is hosting a social meeting next week surrounding the topic of Leila Khaled and whether she should be revered as a freedom fighter or condemned as a terrorist. For those uncultured heathens that have no idea who Leila Khaled is or what she did, pull through to the event – the gory details are at the end of this rap-poem that I wrote on the topic. Where’s my snare?]

 

[Leila in the Sky with Dynamite]

Her palms are sweaty, knees weak, arms are heavy

“Bismillah” she whispers, “God, I’m ready”

She stands up, gazes round at all of their faces

At all of the people that all have their places –

Their countries and cities and houses and homes

A birthplace with no gates they can call their very own

She swallows, determined – enough with the grieving

The time for bereaving and seething and thieving

Is over! It’s time now for action; for reaping

The seeds sown and watered by decades of weeping

So Leila, possessed with the love of her land

Skyjacks a plane in Majnoon now and

Suddenly! She’s the symbol of desperate madness

Borne of desolate sadness; fucking hell, she’s a badass

Now on to Damascus, with the world watching, engrossed

And as they fly over Haifa, she whispers, my home

 

[Bibi and his Boy]

He’s calm, relaxed, alone, untaxed

In his palm, a pen, a phone perhaps

In front of him prayers and papers and maps

Of the Holy Land, no longer whole but in scraps

His thoughts spin and swirl as he tries to surmise

Rocks, tanks, guns, ranks, lives, lies, walls, spies

A boy bursts in; “Abba!” he cries

With a smile that spreads from his heart to his eyes

And love and affection and pride undisguised

He embraces his father who, with a shrug and a sigh

Decides to bring his good day of work to an end

But before he walks out with his son hand in hand

He turns, and with a final swish of his pen

Ten thousand children will be homeless, again

 

 

[A Life for an “i”]

His body’s bleeding, mind screaming, soul is seeping

Khaled Al-Masri is in misery unceasing

“My name is Khaled Al-Masri and I’m innocent”

“Your name is Khalid alright, and you’re militant”

Arrested in the dead of night with no charge

They silenced him worse than any woman did Raj

Through torture and terror at the secret Salt Pit

They came to the answer “Shit, he’s legit”

“So what?” said the CIA – we had a hunch

He’s Muslim, he’s brown, he had falafel for lunch

So we stripped him and whipped him and ripped him a new one

And shipped him and dripped him when he struck out in hun-

-ger, and then when we realized “Oops, we were wrong”

We shunted and punted him to where he belongs

And when he cried out for justice and dignity lost

We said “Fuck that shit, it’s not worth the cost”

But it’s all for your own protection, you see?

Imagine if he was what we had thought him to be?

Fuck a hand for a hand, this is a life for an “i”

Turns out: to lose your life, you don’t have to die.

 

[Border X-ing]

He’s disinterested, disjected, disillusioned and bored

And all of those other lovely “dis-“ words

Not much to do at the post down by the Wall

‘Til Lady P comes along, wrapped in her red-and-white shawl

“Finally, fun” he thinks. “Strip down!” he says

With a leer in his eyes and a sneer on his face

She refuses, of course. And in her strong steady gaze

He sees fury and hatred and total defiance

Sheer triumph replaces the fright in her eyes and

now he’s fearful and nervous, this lost son of Zion

A gunshot

A bloodspot

A teardrop

Silence

It’s over. He showed her. Though not as he planned.

He’s shaken, awakened, mistaken. Alas, and

In the now vacant slain palm of her hand,

He places a gun, as her blood stains the sand.

 

 

Where’s the humanity,

Where is the sanity,

Where the fuck is our excuse for inanity

How can we sit here and like this and tweet

And write blogs and right wrongs with our ass in our seat

Discussing, discoursing, doped up on debate

Where is our anger? Where is our hate?

In this age of fear-mongering with its mirrors and smoke

It’s easy to find yourself blindsided and choke

Dear comrades and fighters, I leave you with this

Was Leila the terrorized or the terrorist?

 

[So there you have it – MC Em-Eye-Bee’s second venture into the world of rap (I’m still working on my badass hip-hop alter-ego title-izzle, as you can see). The aforementioned gory details for the Leila Khaled social meeting are as follows: Tuesday 6th May, 1:15pm to 2:15pm, South West Engineering Atrium, WITS University, Third Cosmic Sphere from the Sun. Turn up. Tune in. Be there or be square and all that jazz. I never really got how calling someone a four-sided polygon was an insult instead of say, an asswank – apparently people really have something against the poor squares, but that’s another anti-oppressive cause for another day. Follow me on Twitter @MibHatesUsAll or @WitsPSC1 for more info. Refreshments will be served too, so now you really don’t have an excuse to not pitch. Peace out yo]

To ASC or not to ASC

Posted: April 3, 2014 in MiB Hates Us All

[Have you ever found yourself so utterly bored that you decide to fuck with authority just for the sake of a laugh or three? I have. A couple of weeks ago, the Accounting School at Wits University put out a notice calling students to apply for a place on the Accounting School Council. Now, everyone knows that the ASC is second only to the Jedi High Council in terms of badassery, so I decided to spark off my budding political career by ensuring election onto the Council to, I dunno, account or something. And so, inspired by Tucker Max, I bequeath to you my application letter to be elected onto the Accounting School Council]

To whom it may concern

My name is MiB and I am hereby applying for a position on the Accounting Student Council.

If elected, I promise to attend every Accounting Student Council session with a positive attitude and a rotting dead bat christened FinAccula to symbolize just how soul-sucking this profession is. I will then demand discussion and debate around issues that have no bearing on the accounting profession, such as which budding Professor Utonium accidentally created Wits pigeons and whether or not a systematic genocide of the Sociology students would be such a bad thing after all.

If I do not get my way, I will rip off all my clothes in a very manly fashion and bellow “DEFINE AND RECOGNIZE ME AS YOUR RULER, BITCHES!” before unleashing my army of antisocial actuaries on the dissenters.

Upon becoming Supreme Dictator For Life, I shall annex the land of the Matrix, declare war on UJ and enslave their students who shall henceforth act as ferries between East Campus and West Campus for my minions, thus solving the transport issue that has plagued students since people actually had to live with the name Wartenweiler.

My first decree will be to change the acronym of my palace – the FNB Building – to its rightful title, namely the Fine Nasty Bitches Building. My second decree will be the installation of a Jacuzzi for fire-retardant purposes. I will then appoint a Finder of Fine Nasty Bitches, who will oversee the recruitment of aforementioned Fine Nasty Bitches. This could be you if you vote for me.

My previous skills and experience include being reborn after three days, turning water into wine, turning vodka into a forgotten night, walking on water and wine (red only), blessing hoes and being Jesus.

Respectfully submitted,

MiB, Esq.

 

I can’t believe I didn’t get elected.

 

[If you want to be appointed as the Finder of Fine Nasty Bitches when I eventually come to power and rule the world, follow me (in general) and tweet me (on Twitter) your credentials @MibHatesUsAll. Other positions to be filled include The Keeper of Booty, Head of Nuclear Activities and my personal butler, Alfred (if your name is not Alfred, please be advised that it will be changed to Alfred). The rest of you have been warned.]

Global Drama Island

Posted: March 26, 2014 in MiB Hates Us All

[In light of the recent news of Malaysian Airlines Flight MH370, my condolences go out to any members of the bereaved families that may happen to, perchance, come across this particular piece on this particular blog in the deep dark web. If you are a member from one of the families and reading this, know that I am sorry for your loss. If you aren’t a member from one of the families, keep reading anyway. Regardless of who the fuck you are, I have decided to try and bring a smile to your face by writing a screenplay for the pilot episode of Global Drama Island. The premise: the world’s leaders and a random Ukrainian model find themselves on a remote island after a plane crash, LOST-style. Socio-political hilarity (as well as six seasons and a movie, hopefully) ensues]

 

GLOBAL DRAMA ISLAND

PILOT

 

[FADE IN]

A man emerges from the flotsam and jetsam of a plane crash on the beach. He is tall, dark and of questionable birth. A solitary bald eagle with a fucked internal compass swoops majestically behind him on this lush tropical island somewhere in the Indian Ocean. It’s a very poetic moment. The eagle cries its bald eagley cry, as if to say “Where the fuck am I?” He responds in its native tongue, for it is his patriotic duty to know the speech of the bald eagle: “Fuck if I know, dude.” He is Barack Obama: President of the United States of America, Defender of the Free World and very very lost.

He walks down to the beach, where amongst the strewn baggage and littered luggage, the rest of his cohorts in command have begun to assemble.

Barack: Friends, fellow leaders, random Ukrainian model – I address you in this dire moment of distress. I don’t know whose idea it was to let the Malaysian Prime Minister fly the plane, but here we are. At least we are all safe. Now, first things first: we need to devise a system of free speech that will allow everyone to have their fair say on what we are to do next.

Kim Jong-Un: No we don’t.

General Sisi: No we don’t.

Chavez: *cough* NSA *cough*

Barack [ignoring them]: Does anybody see a conch lying around anywhere?

[Silence]

Chavez: It’s a fucking beach – there are literally shells everywhere.

Nieto: Well, I have a poncho.

Barack: Brilliant! We shall use the poncho. Anybody that would like to deliver any eloquent speeches shall don the Poncho of Freedom and have his say.

Rob Ford: I would like to say something.

Barack: Very well, Brother Rob. Put on the poncho and speak your heart.

Rob Ford solemnly takes the poncho from Obama, then proceeds to rip it to pieces as he tries to fit it over his massive bulk.

[Silence]

Rob Ford: As my people would say… Sorry.

Barack: What the fuck, Rob?!

Rob Ford: Sorry.

Barack: You’ve torn the Poncho of Freedom. Now how are we supposed to speak in turn and have supposed equal freedom of speech? All I wanted was a little bit of order and civilization. But no, you had to tear the fucking poncho. You’ve ruined democracy, Rob. You can’t sit with us.

Rob: Sorry.

Barack: How the fuck are you so fat, anyway? Guys, I think someone needs to call Greenpeace and alert them while we start rolling Rob back into the ocean because clearly he’s a fucking whale.

Rob: Sorry.

Barack: Hey Rob, would you mind turning around, just for a second? I want to check out your propeller scars.

Rob: Sorry.

Barack: Ok. Ok. What the hell did you want to say in any case?

Rob: I wanted to apologize to everyone for this terrible mess that we’re in.

Barack: Are you fucking kidding me?! Wait, Rob, what is that?

Rob [Trying to shuffle out of sight, no easy task for such a fat man]: Nothing.

Barack: Is that a crack pipe? Are you fucking smoking crack right now?

Rob. I’m nervous ok. Sorry.

Barack: Screw the Smoke Monster, we’ve got the fucking Coke Monster right here. Where the hell did you get crack on this island anyway??

Rob: From the Nigerian guy, of course.

[Pause]

Barack and Co march off to find Goodluck Jonathan, President of Nigeria.

Rob Ford: Tell him I said sorry!

 

A man is sitting on a rock half-submerged in the white wispy sand, an empty bottle glinting brilliantly in the sunlight at his bare feet. A black fedora shades him from the heavy heat, and he is hunched over a piece of paper, frowning in concentration, when the approaching crowd distracts him and he looks up, smiling.

Barack: Goodluck, did you give Rob Ford… Wait, what are you doing?

Goodluck: Ah, my Kenyan brother! I am writing out a message to place in this bottle to throw out into the big blue, where hopefully someone will find it and read it and come and rescue us.

Barack: That’s actually not a bad idea at all.

Goodluck [winking]: African thinking, brother.

Barack: What did you say in the message?

Goodluck: “Dear Intended Recipient of this message, my name is Goodluck Jonathan and I am the President of Nigeria. I am currently stuck on an island along with Barack Obama, Jacob Zuma, a random Ukrainian model and other leader of the worlds. I am in great needing of your assistances. If you could just-“

Barack: Ok, that’s enough. Um…  yeah. Right. One quick question: are the grammar mistakes intentional?

Goodluck: What grammar mistakes?

Barack: Nevermind.

Goodluck: I was going to ask them for their address and bank account number too so that we may rightfully reward them for any assistance they may provide.

Barack: You do that. Right. I’ll leave you to it then. As you were.

Goodluck [cheerfully]: I heard that Jacob found fresh water. You might want to check that out. Bye Barack!

Barack [glumly]: Ok, I’ll head there… Good luck, Goodluck.

 

The sun beats down on a huge mound of dark brown earth, peppered with curly black shrubs. We pan out, only to find that the mound is situated on yet another mound of deep brown, bigger and darker than the first. We hear an ominous “Hehehe” from somewhere off-screen. We pan out even more, only to realize that the horizon is filled with the head(s) of Jacob Zuma himself, President of South Africa, who is sitting on the bank of a pond, feet dipped into the water, jovially humming “Umshini Wami” when he hears the approaching party and hastily stands up.

Barack: Hey, Jacob.

[Silence]

Jacob: Hello.

Barack: So, Goodluck told me that you managed to find fresh water. I’m assuming that he was referring to this crystal-clear pond right behind you. Good on you, Jacob! You’ve saved us!

Jacob: Ja… no.

[Silence]

Jacob: This is my fire-pool.

[More silence]

Barack: Your WHAT?!

Jacob: My fire-pool. You know, if there’s a fire, and my life is in danger, then I can use the water in my fire-pool to put out the fire.

Barack [thoroughly confused]: But there’s an ocean right there…

Jacob: Ja, but now, you see, I can-

 

But we’ll never know what Barack will see that Jacob can, because at that precise moment a gunshot rings out with a loud BANG, ripping through the serenity of the surroundings. Barack and Co race to the source of the gunshot, only to find Benjamin Netanyahu, Prime Minister of Israel, standing over the now pretty much headless body of Mahmoud Abbas, President of the State of Palestine (since 2008).

Barack: Bibi, did you just shoot Abbas in the face?

Netanyahu: No.

Barack: But there’s a gun in your hand and a hole in his face.

Netanyahu: Ok fine – maybe.

Barack: Bibi, why would you do something like that?

Netanyahu: Because, like, this is a nice piece of land, right? And Abbas was here, right? Are you following me so far?

Barack: Yes.

Netanyahu: Ok, good. So anyway, I had a vision from a Jewish merman named Ariel that this exact piece of land was once owned by the Jewish people a couple of hundred years ago – two, maybe three hundred years, I don’t know, the vision had this weird clamshell bra on despite being an incredibly old man – and then anyway, I settled down here on this nice piece of ancient Jewish land.

Barack: But why did you shoot Abbas then?

Netanyahu: Oh! Yes, he wasn’t too happy about me taking his land so he starting kicking sand at me which is a direct violation of the Geneva Convention, as you know, and my life was directly in danger because sand can get into your eye which is really very irritating which can then lead you into a state of depression which is a leading cause of suicide, so I shot him. Totally justified, as you can see.

 

Whether it was totally justified or not [hint: it’s not], our intrepid gang of Gaia gurus is suddenly disturbed by a movement in the underbrush. The earth quakes. A tree is felled. Rob Ford lights up another crack pipe and Jacob curses himself for not being near his fire-pool. And then, lo and behold, Vladimir Motherfucking Putin bursts into the scene, bare-chested astride a motherfucking bear.

Putin: Что нового суки?

Barack: Where the fuck did you find a bear?

Putin: I am Putin. Bear finds me.

Barack: Whatever. Tell me Vlad, what have you done to contribute to our ongoing survival? Nieto very graciously donated his poncho, Rob… apologized for the mess we’re in, Goodluck is writing a message that could save us and Jacob found us fresh water. What have you done?

Putin: I have built luxury shelter up on mountain and distilled four-and-twenty litres of my own strain of vodka. I call it Putinka. I have also domesticated wild goat I found up on mountain and I wrestled four sharks today, one of them hammerhead. Yes, I admit, I did slack a bit today. What is it that you have done Comrade Black Barack?

Barack: Well, I’ve necessitated the means to our continuing survival as a faction of free men on this here uncharted island, as well as ensured the morale of all those involved in this pitiful and piteous freak accident are safe and secure and I’ve facilitated the use of a inhere-

Putin: Is this what they are meaning when they are talking about your “drones”?

Barack: No. Who said that I drone? I’ll have you know that I am the most eloquent orator that has originated fr-

Putin: Vatever. I am now taking this kinky krasotka back to my man-cave, where I shall, how you say, “annex” her body. Hahaha.

Barack: You can’t just do that. What if she doesn’t want to go, hey??

Ukrainian model: I vant to go.

Barack: No you don’t.

Ukrainian model: Of course I vant to go. Vat ve had vos nice, Barack, but you are just too banal for me. Ta ta.

Barack: But once you go black, you never go back…

Putin: Bitch please, vonce you go Putin, you never stop shootin’.

Barack: That doesn’t even make sense!

Putin: Crimea river.

Jacob: Crimea fire-pool! He he he

Putin rides off with the Ukrainian model into the horizon on his bear. Barack crumples down, a defeated man, and resigns himself to bitterly drowning his sorrows in a puddle of Putinka. Rob Ford lights up yet another crack pipe. Goodluck carefully places his note into Putinka bottle 419 and heaves it deep into the ocean. The rest of the Liquorice Allsorts of Authority settle down for the night as the sun sets over Jacob’s heads.

 

[RETRO REMIX OF UMSHINI WAMI PLAYS IN BACKGROUND]

[FADE THE FUCK OUT]

 

[Hollywood, my door awaits your knocks. Bollywood, my Kabhi Khushi awaits your Gham. Nollywood, your estranged prince awaits my money. Sollywood (the South African film industry) – I await your efforts to come up with a name that sounds better than a sensitive Chinese man apologizing to a tree he just hit.  If you still want me to remember you when I’m an infamous rockstar writer, lay upon me your adoration and adulation in abundance. Or you can just subscribe to my blog on the left and follow me on Twitter @MibHatesUsAll, it’s kinda the same thing]

Till Death Do Us Part

Posted: March 9, 2014 in MiB Hates Us All

[This is a rap-poem that I wrote about a week ago when I was feeling particularly inspired after going to Eminem, losing myself, going berzerk and cleaning out my closet. I thought that it would be “totes appropes”, as a white girl would say, to post it since this coming week is Israeli Apartheid Week and I’m pretty passionate about the plight of the Palestinians, having been to Jerusalem and the West Bank three times and witnessing the oppression and the sheer struggle of everyday life for the people living there firsthand. Please bear in mind that this is the first rap-poem that I have ever penned, so if it turns out to be more Vanilla Ice than Slim Shady please forgive me in advance and fuck yo big-ass momma, which I believe is the appropriate rapper procedure before doing anything]

 

This story starts as all good stories do,

With a boy and a girl, one Arab, one Jew,

But that’s pretty much where this fairytale ends

So come gather round kids, bring all of your friends

 

She had midnight’s hair and skin so fair

Like something airbrushed from Marie Claire

She had lips like honey and eyes so deep

You drowned in their colour, like bright olive leaves

 

Then one day Mama UK and Papa UN decided,

Baby, we’re gonna take your life and divide it

Here’s a nice shattered boy, he’ll be a nice flattered man

Damn, Will was right, parents just don’t understand

 

So they gave her away, first whole then in pieces

Take her, she’s yours, rent her, lease it

We don’t care, we’ve done our job,

We messed up before, yes, so we solved the prob-

-lem by saving one nation, one people, the Jews

Now the Palestinians? Not them, too!

 

So Lady P was wed to this guy,

She put up a fight, let those milky fists fly

But how can fists beat F-16s and tanks?

Would you ever try to fuck up Homicide Hank?

 

He moved into her home and plopped down on the couch

And forced her to deepthroat him as he spread himself out

And then, when he was done and she was filled with his seed

He smiled down at her, knowing that she’d never leave.

 

Through black olive eyelids and scratches and scars

And beatings and reavings and intifadas

She stuck it, said fuck it, this here is my home,

My children, my pilgrims, my heartbeat, my soul

So he

slaughtered her daughters till blood flowed like water

In rivulets and streams to the Sea of Galilee

And as he maimed and jailed her sons by the letter

While Uncle Sam stood by and asked “Can’t you do better?”

 

It’s been over fifty years now, an infinity’s tears now,

An eternity’s worth of cruel cheers and jeers shou-

-ted from the mouth that shears and sears her

Asking “Honey, are you ready to surrender?”

 

She’s been sliced and diced and knifed and Christed

And raped to a spliced twisted whisper of life

But her soul lives on, her spirit strong,

Lady Palestine’s heartbeat will go on

 

[So there you have it, MC MiBizzle’s first foray into rap. If you’re against oppression and apartheid and the harsh systematic removal of a people from their homes, support Israeli Apartheid Week 2014. If you’re a relatively decent human being that would give Leonardo diCaprio his goddamn Oscar, support Israeli Apartheid Week 2014. If you’re not a cunt, support Israeli Apartheid Week 2014. At the very least tweet the hashtag or like it on Facebook or Snapchat a Palestinian kid or whatever. Be informed. Don’t be duped by the media. End oppression. Follow me on Twitter @MibHatesUsAll. Fuck yo big-ass momma. Peace]