Pimpin' yo ass...

It's raining in Cape Town.  And I have very little fuel in my car.  So let's hope it gets me home on fumes.  Which it will.  My car is good to me like that.  But that is not the subject of this blog ... but could be tomorrow if I run out of fuel.

So last night was supposed to be an early night. I slaved away over a voiceover script until about 9.30pm and was about to head home when I got a text from The Genie saying that a certain government tax organisation could go do bad things to itself (she was going to fill out the dreaded return) whilst she was almost through a bottle of wine and was about to open the tequila. The Genie is on the way home so I thought I would pop in for a Jose nightcap.  I had worked hard after all and had been good since Saturday.

When I got there I was greeted by a very merry Genie, a bowl of food, a glass of wine, two men and a shot of tequila. Good move! The next thing I knew were were heading out the door to look for mischief thanks to Pretoria Friend fancying a "quick one" at one of the locals.  Pretoria Friend bailed at the last minute, but it was too late for us.  There we were, all lined up at the bar at a local pool joint in Obs.  One that is notorious for causing bad hangovers.  Especially on week nights. Especially on student night (which it wasn't - that's a Tuesday night if you need to know).

It was here that I was introduced to a well-known concept that is a popular party theme and ghetto occupation.  Pimping.  

The Genie's brother thought it would be fun to set up his sister with some random dude across the bar. One that was highly unlikely to get laid that night.  The deal was done and he told me that even if she didn't get down and dirty with the man, he would pay her R1 000. 


Turns out The Genie didn't take said man home, even though when I left the pool joint at 1.30am she was happily sinking his balls on the pool table. But she should be a R1 000 richer. And I am wondering how I go about finding a pimp of my own.

Pimp (from Urban Dictionary)
A bad ass that makes a living selling his woman, for shit loads of cash. Usually too busy to remember names so the common pimp will call his bitches, "bitches". Can usually be spotted by their unique taste in "pimpin clothes", and by them driving an old school Cadillac. Indeed we all wish we could be pimps.

Booze Label Scrabble

I learnt a new game last night at a local gig.  Not a drinking game, sadly, but a fun one nevertheless. Booze Label Scrabble - taught to me by my new Canadian Friend.

Basically you rip the labels off bottles of alcohol. Then you tear the letters out.  Using those letters you have to come up with words and, like scrabble, whoever gets the longest word wins.

We got together quite a good collection of  B's, L's, A's, C's, K's, L's, A's, B's, E's, L's and A's, M's,S's, T's, E's, L's and H's, U's, N's, T's, E's, R's D's R's Y's. Savannah is not good for this we discovered.

I came up with MUSE and Canadian Friend came up with LABIA.  We then decided to collaborate our efforts and were very proud of the result - U WANKERS BALLS SMELL.

Will add picture of said achievement tomorrow, if I can figure out how to get the picture off my phone.

Hell-o-ween weekend

You know it was a good weekend when the first drink of the day is not tea but a Go Girl energy drink.  Then you open your bag on a Monday morning and find your bra in it from Friday night.

Friday night started civilised-like at Peddlars.  It never used to be a civilised affair, but sadly it is now full of old gits who sit very quietly at the tables (the tables!) drinking their beers and ordering dinner. I found it all a bit sad.  What happened to the days of jousting your way through the throng of youngsters to get a shot of tequila whilst getting beer spilt down your front?  Or am I supposed to be grown up now? Pfft, boring!  So, after a few bevies I decided it was time to order some stomach-lining. No go there either, the menu has gotten all fancy.  No more 'tato skins oozing with cheese for R30. No sirree, it's all fancy burgers and steaks now. So we settled for a plate of chips for R25.  With no cheese.  Or bacon.  Then it was off to some "country club" in Bergvleit where we were told "we would be good-looking no matter what".  Sounded good to me!  A cover band was playing and the drinks were cheap. We settled in quickly and had a rocking time.  Then my bra started digging into me.  Underwiring hurts when it escapes.  And that is why I took it off. Because it was hurting. Not because I wanted to throw it at the band.

After crawling home at 2am, I was up at 7.30am to go to breakfast with my Mom Friend. 8am breakfast on a Saturday is always a good idea on a Thursday.  Not on Saturday. But bacon and french toast is always a good thing and so is a nap after it.  The dogs were very confused when I got home at 10am and went back to bed.

After an hour's power nap it was off to Party Partner down the road to help with his Halloween Braai set-up. It was all quite fitting, me walking down the street armed with Halloween goodies looking much like a zombie.

Needless to say I was late for the actual braai thanks to making a potato salad for over 20 people (that is a lot of potato peeling) and I also made the fatal mistake of going to the shops for supplies.  Irrespective of the fact that it was Halloween weekend, it WAS hell out there.

Then to make the afternoon worse, I chose to support the losing team. Safe to say that I will never support WP again. Seems to me that all rugby teams that wear black are winning teams.  Except it was pointed out that the All Blacks lost their match to Australia in the morning.  Clearly not a good day for rugby.

After many tequilas at the Oblivion bar, I attempted to get the hot barman's number.  Apparently he doesn't give out numbers to people he doesn't know.  I pointed out that in order to get to know someone they need your number.  He pointed out that I could just stand at the bar and order drinks from him all night and get to know him that way.  Clever barman-wanting-tips move.  After getting bored of said barman, I briefly considered a spot of pole dancing. But not on the one on the dance floor.  The one holding up the scaffolding.  Good thing I was stopped, I could have brought the house down...

Have a rocking week people!  And don't forget to join me at Lovecats on Friday at Mercury.  All proceeds to animal welfare.  Even from the bar.  Good excuse to drink up.  Hope there's hot barmen.  And a pole..