Category Archives: Social

Sea point me in the right direction.

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The promenade in Sea Point has to be one of the best in the world.
It’s filled with happy new families walking together to the different parks for the kids to play in. There’s fit people running up and down and sometimes working out on the workout bars provided at the end, or beginning (depending where you come from), of the promenade. You will also have the pleasure of viewing some of the sexiest people Cape Town has to offer with one of the most spectacular sun set backdrops behind them. It’s mesmerizing. It’s long, clean and above all else it’s safe. It is one of the best spots in the world…
But when that beautiful sunset has bowed down completely, the path along Beach road starts to sing a different tune.

It was 2001 when I made my first trip to Cape Town, that was not a school trip or family vacation. It was a lover and myself off to explore the apparent gay Mecca of Africa. After much sightseeing I turned to the bf and asked if we could drive down the street cluttered with stray rent boys to which he was more than eager to do. Why? Was this another sight to see? Well, after the heavy expose’ that featured on Carte Blanche a few weeks prior, I just wanted to quench my curiosity. I’m from a small mining town, the idea that there is a street filled with men you could climb on top of for some change was just something I needed to see. So we drove out to the road and true to word as soon as you drive slowly so many men start coming out of the dark to show you what they have on offer. Did we pick one up? No, mainly because it’s sad. It’s not sexy. It’s pathetic, and that makes it sad.

Twelve years down the line and Sea Point is free of hookers and drug pushers… Or so I thought.

After a delicious supper I wanted a stroll down the walkway, partly to get the digestives going, and partly to smoke a j. It was a cold night – I had a leather jacket on. To my right I see a boy standing at the bus stop. Sure, he could be waiting for a bus, but hello, the SA bus services have been on strike for like three weeks and the boy in question is in a tank top and tiny shorts – did I mention I was in a leather jacket? Poor little rent boy. Moments later another man comes towards me and tries to spark a conversation but I know this is just the beginning of his sales technique. I’m a sister with enough rings around my trunk, you feel me? So I know. Say hello, keep it polite, but keep going.

WTF? Have we stepped back in time? Why are the hookers back? And why am I so irked? For one main reason… With online sleaze, bathhouses and action bars there’s really no need to be prowling around a children’s play ground offering sex. Similarly there is no need to solicit sex there either. So who is to blame? “Straight” men… Of course. The reason it’s happening is because the clients that pull up on beach road are not men who would go to the bathhouses or action bars. They won’t have online hookups. Because they’re not gay so they can’t be seen at a gay establishment and it pisses me off. You give homosexuality a sleazy name, one I struggle to combat even only in conversational context… No no no, I’m accusing, and assuming and maybe behaving like a prude.

Everyone needs to make money… Right? Who am I to say how. And some men need to pay for a little something something, who am I to say they can’t?

I let it go. For the meantime.

The next morning I went for the same walk and was lost in the sky and the sea with the mountain and the grass when oops, I stepped in shit. And I am back to where I was last night. It’s not about hating prostitution. It’s about activism. Activism for the park. It is not a place for hookers. It’s is not a place for sex. And tough as it may seem to understand, it is not a place for dogs to drop a coil.

It’s the one place that, seemed to be, free of shit. I would love it to actually be. Just one little place, and I guess it’s as easy as not picking up a hooker – there – and taking your dog to dump on one of the other many walks out there for them… Thats If you can’t pick it up.

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The Straight Prize?

“Ten, eleven, twelve…” and I place the barbell back on the floor, grab my bottle, slug a swig and proceed to hit another set of thrusters when he sits down on the bench beside me, reaches for two heavy dumbbells and pumps up his biceps. His two huge arms become engulfed in pulsating veins. He looks up at me and smiles.

What’s a man to do?

“One, two, three, four…” no need to stop what I am doing, so I thrust away pulling the bar up onto my shoulders and then above my head. “Ten, eleven, twelve…” and I drop the bar back to the floor before I take a seat. Sweat dripping from my face, I watch as his arm has almost grown double the size since he walked in. The man’s packing some serious arm beef. He knows I’m looking, I can feel he is aware, as if the air pressure has changed to some degree from comfort to confinement. “Hey?” I give the man my friendliest hey-there-fellow-gym-goer hello, and he responds with the more appropriate slight-smile-and-head-dip “how’s it hanging?”

Lonely in the gym.

When one focuses on changing ones physique the idea that it may become a lonely task is lost on the drive to become bigger or buffer or tighter. And to spite the admiration I may find in many men’s bodies, that is where it ends – at admiration. So imagine my surprise when the friendly hello turned into some clever banta followed by “Do you like the steam room?”

The straight prize?

At what point, as a homo, does a straight man get off thinking he is a prize for me? Would the true attraction not lie in the attraction two people share for each other? Attraction from one side is not merely attraction for another if in fact an act displaying that attraction follows… It’s plain old obsession. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to give a flip flopping straight man that kind of power boost. Ergo, go fuck yourself straight boy.

Much love to all my homo brothers!

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Something a little Old – but Unsolved

Tis the season to be jolly?

Walking through the mall, I am met full-force by the on set of the festive season. Merry this and jolly that, ho-ho-ho and a happy kinda red and green, and a few more eye sore decoration go by before: “Can I interest you in a lovely gift for your wife?” I hold back from just ripping the stupid little sales girl a new hol-d-on a second, as a news headline – ever so small yet unavoidable to the trained headline spotter – on a newspaper alongside the frightening filler gifts states: “Police admit there is a gay serial killer.” What? Only now. Okay, at least they are admitting it, lets be grateful for the first steps towards recovery, even if they may be juvenile in their pace.

What’s the Ho-Down?

So if you don’t know let me get you up to speed: for almost two years now gay guys have been turning up dead in very much a similar pattern. Something that appears to be a casual hook up has turned into the last hook up for some of these poor individuals. So what are we left to deduce from this? Are we to blame for or callus behavior when it comes to taking a trick home with us? Although it would be unfair to lambaste these events as tricks when they all seem to stem from online hook-ups, which is a totally different thing, in the sense that you get to, sort of, know the guy before you decide to take him home. From my experience, men tend to gravitate towards online hooks ups for the basic anonymity of it all. Apparently a real person is a turn off compared to what your mind can create yet, ironically enough, as much as you make believe the man to be more than he actually is, the truth of it is you are still having sex with the man as he is, and you will only come to realise this next week when he is standing at the bar with all his other queen friends and he is hardly the power top you initially envisioned. But I’m side lining here, it’s this ridiculous notion of anonymity that creates such a volatile space in which a dangerous game of cat and mouse can play out in full fruition. So what’s the solution? Maybe, with all this Christmas ho-show-down, the truth lies behind the homosexuality imbedded in the nativity scene? Wait? What? Homosexuality? Where? Well, gentlemen, if you think that those wise men kicking back with each other on camel back staring up at the stars didn’t bump uglies on more than one occasion then you are romanticizing a world where the birth barn didn’t smell like a barn. And I’m sure it did. As I am sure the reason these three men, with gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh (can we get anymore camp here?), were so wise because they shared the love that dared not speak it’s name. So how might the gayness of the three wise men be an inspiring/forewarning story for all us homos? How can it help in today’s age? \for the obvious reason, – they knew each other. They shared a common interest – the stars – and this interest led them to get to know each other. The occasional coitus between astrologers was purely coincidental.  And it’s their love for the stars that makes a playing field for playful fun between men safe, and in my opinion deeper.

And my hi-pitched rant is about?

So, what I am trying to preach without preaching is, maybe the festive season should not be about the conquests and the challenges for the empty hi-five with your mates the next morning but the experiences lived with a holiday romance, transcending the idea of the lascivious gay man’s hedonistic approach towards sexual gratification into something far more perplexed and memorable when it comes to living out our salacious souls. This is not about keeping your dick in your pants but presenting the present as a gift, something special, something where the man receiving the mystery package can unwrap it like it’s his first Christmas prezzy ever, with excitement in his eyes. Let’s take Christmas back, if for no other reason than to ensure we all come out of it alive, and smiling.

Born This Way?

An article on news24 sparked my interest about the pros of having gay parents but the comments fueled the rage. A man by the name of Gary – who has an unhealthy obsession with the anus – spurted a whole bunch of homophobic junk in the idea that we are not born this way. To which I replied that my gayness and his ugliness (yeah, I did a little Facebook stalk and saw that Gary is not only ugly, but fat, and has 73 friends) are directly attributed to the same thing, genetics.

Now before you start raving about the gay gene let me say there is no such thing, but on top of that, genetics is such a highly complex compound that naming it as a simplified noun couldn’t be further from the truth. Now there are a certain amount of genetic strands that will start to build this new life and many of which will give an inclination towards homosexuality but not necessarily ensuring that the zygote in question will turn out homosexual, I mean why are some girls complete whores and others complete saints? The answer may stem from genetics.

Now if genes make up a certain amount of a persons predisposition then societal norms and familial dispositions would directly effect a child’s mannerisms, behavior and style choices, which is why we have burly, beefy bears and mincing, flapping queens who still do the same thing – suck dick – both gay but with different upbringings.

A study was done a few years ago in Italy where they took a few families where there is one son with more than one daughter and measured the difference, if any, between the two. What came up interesting was that the families with one straight son, the daughters had few or no children compared to the families who had one gay son, the daughters had more children. What does this say? That the “gay” genetics are not necessarily about homosexuality but about the attraction to men. Seeing how the gay son was attracted to men (obviously) that same genetic attribute spilled over onto the girls in the family and they in turn breed like flies – those girls just couldn’t get enough man action.

So with all this research One is left to wonder how can a man like Gary still believe in what he is saying. His reply : “God said this, and God wants that…” and I slowly died a little inside. I may be a spiritual person, but it’s a private thing and I will never even try explain my beliefs to another human being, let alone use them to support an argument. And the idea that a man can tell me what God likes and doesn’t, makes me feel like I am living in never never land, with Dorothy, spinning golden thread, waiting for a prince to kiss me and wake me from a comatose sleep… Basically I feel like I just ate a bunch of crazy pills.

By the end I realized that there are so many synonyms for stupidity, homophobic being one of them. And only stupidity tries to have a sensical debate with stupidity – so that’s where I caught the one way sanity train out of crazy Jesusville back to gay town…

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….yummy….

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Open letter to the surviving Rivonia trialists by Kay Sexwale

Dear Ahmed Kathrada, Andrew Mlangeni, Dennis Goldberg and Nelson Mandela, I greet you all in the name of the continuing economic freedom struggle of our people.

Your courage in fighting for the emancipation of our country is greatly appreciated.

I was fed ANC propaganda with my Purity baby food, but I believe the time has come to consciously choose South Africa over the ANC.

The governing party, for many, is like a religion, followed by many without question or doubt.

Surely comrades, your sacrifices were not for a one-party, one-trade union state?

The time for a younger, patriotic and selfless leadership, like yours in 1964, is here.

The thinking public laments our bumpy transition from liberation movement to political party, with some pointing out that a liberation movement has to be centralised and secretive while a modern party in government must be influenced by its members and society, and so be more transparent.

The loss of public trust through daily media exposure of the plague of government corruption, which appears to be condoned by the ANC, is deeply seated.

The public perception is that the Mangaung leadership debate will boil down to who will continue to allow rampant looting of state resources, the dangerous slippery slope of tribalism, or who might make a difference.

Truth be told, the names being bandied about as top contenders are all synonymous with the rot that plagues the movement.

The masses so loved by political party leaders at election time have taken to the streets to voice their dissatisfaction.

Earlier this year, even middle-class a rmchair critics put on their designer sneakers and marched against e-tolling, also reportedly shrouded in corruption and an added burden on our ridiculously taxed wallets.

In March, Police Minister Nathi Mthethwa informed Parliament that between 2007 and 2010, the most common reason for police crowd management of gatherings was labour-related demands for increases in wages, and that unrest requiring police intervention was related to service delivery issues.

Later in June, City Press reported that 372 protests related to service delivery had been recorded between January and the end of May this year alone.

In 18 years of democracy, we can still blame apartheid for many social ills, but we must also blame our leaders.

The disgraceful and shocking non-delivery of textbooks in Limpopo left me cold.

But the worst thing that broke the soul of South Africa during this fateful year of the ANC’s centenary was the shameful Marikana massacre, reminiscent of the Sharpeville slaughter.

It highlighted aspects of every ill plaguing black society under an ANC-led government: police brutality, wage strikes, corporate greed, failure of natural mineral resource redistribution, flawed implementation of black economic empowerment, violent crime, service-delivery failure, including inhumane slum settlements, unemployment concerns and much more.

The man who shoved his way to the front, taking the reins of leadership in this sorry mess, was Julius Malema, a spat-out child of the movement. In the space of a few days, he single-handedly nullified what little trust I had left in the aging ANC leadership.

I was raised by courageous men and women, people like you, the Rivonia Trialists, who now need me to tell them it’s time to let go.

The ANC has never been as self-destructive as it is today.

Cosatu, the ANC-aligned trade union federation, has driven the economy into free fall as the failure of their collective bargaining strategy, designed to perpetuate the racist status quo, is blowing up in our faces with one strike after another.

I’m waiting for them to stop blaming third-force right wing elements and take some responsibility.

And let me not get started on the recent madness of more than R200 million-worth of Nkandla renovations, SAA’s R5 billion bailout and the relentless e-toll attitude of government.

In 2009, I took longer than usual to vote in the booth, agonising over putting an X next to the face of a man I instinctively knew was bad news.

My love for the ANC won over my reservations.

In last year’s local government elections, I rebelled, voting for the ANC in my neighbourhood and for another party in the city.

I am sure Joburg Mayor Parks Tau is capable, but my rebellion against a President Jacob Zuma-led ANC began with that ballot paper.

To not vote at all in 2014, as many are threatening, will be to dishonour the memory of my uncle, Lesetja Sexwale, and his many fallen comrades who died in combat for my right to vote.

It will be to disrespect the struggle for which men and woman such as him, men like yourselves, sacrificed their youth.

Personally, it will be a betrayal of little Kay who was badly injured in a cross-border raid in Lesotho in 1982 when the apartheid forces were hunting down Umkhonto we Sizwe combatants like my father and Chris Hani.

I don’t know who I will vote for. All I know is that Zuma will never again hold office with my consent.

I know uncle Lesetja and uncle Chris would not view my choice as a betrayal of their sacrifices. I trust that you won’t either.

I choose South Africa.

20121119-134901.jpg Sexwale is a media and communication strategist with an interest in current affairs and post-apartheid experiences

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Shigaff about Pride?

It started political, enough…?

Before the actual taste of freedom, it happened. When the smell of the heavenly roast of equality was wafting through the air, it happened. And in 1990 I remember hearing about it at the ripe age of seven, “Die moffies hardloop deur die straat!” – so naturally, with the initial emotion of shame, I pranced outside to play where hateful words could not be heard. But one day I knew I would be one of those “moffies” prancing through the streets whether onlookers spat on me or not. And as soon as the clock turned 18 I was strong enough to stand up for myself, and I braved my first pride. Propositioned by men, sweet talked by the ladies and accosted by the bible bashers… I could not have asked for a more fulfilling experience from a cherry popping first time. What were we marching for? The right to adopt children. And now we can, to spite how difficult it may still be (I am told), but I felt I marched for something.

Is it different?

Now, We marched for equality…? What? Slap my forehead and call me Mary, that is as redundant as saying I would like meat for dinner, not rump, fillet or sirloin, just meat. For a group of people hell bent on equality they surely have not thought past their own noses in terms of creating a real message, creating real unity between the marchers and creating something that we can be proud of (can you smell the filthy smell of irony, no pride in pride). I understand the concept of equality but does it really need to be mentioned? Marching for equality – and here comes another food analogy – is like asking for my steak to be seasoned in a restaurant, it’s pretty much expected to be seasoned.
With such an open theme it was expected that this year would turn into a march of individuals, not of a group. Each and every person was going to have their own idea of equality and come fully prepared with their own agenda, and this idea of “what about me?” was more prevalent than ever before. What ever happened to “What about us?” but before I start accusing everyone else of nepotism for their own idealistic notions of freedom, I have to ask myself, am I guilty of doing the very same? Admittedly, yes I am. After almost eleven years of Pride, my admiration and support for the LGBTI community has dwindled down, dissipated into a fine mist of nothingness, as I feel more and more the perversion of being gay taking hold of the very definition of being gay. Correct me if I am wrong but I was under the impression that I was gay because I fall in love with men, not merely that I lust after them? But float after float I was reminded of what it really means to be gay… A boy in underpants. And it saddened me, if it weren’t for the Christian float handing out much needed water or the ladies in the front of the march dancing to their own tangible rhythm I may have completely lost my respect for a community I have been so naively supporting over the years. So I am guilty, of attending this year with the idea that most homos are just perverts, the idea buried somewhere deep in my brain, therefore I am guilty of creating a notion of “them” and “me” in a community that use to take that very notion and, with one copacetic movement, turn it into “us”.

What did I do?

With the wave of violent protests sweeping over our fair land I could not help myself from asking the more pertinent question: How is this march different from any other? And my answer would have been that this march is about love, respect, tolerance and a general good vibe. To prove to onlookers that to spite what judgement may be cast on us as LGBTI folk that we always brave a smile and include others in our quest for joy. So I slipped on an outfit that commanded attention, spun a mirror ball high in the air to gain a few grins and twirled my way past onlookers all in hopes of garnishing a smile, a laugh whether it be at me or with me, so long as I see you are happy.
But half way through the march I stumbled upon a group of protesters with a very ambiguous message: “No cause for celebration” and as a somewhat veteran at the game of pride I immediately jumped towards homophobia. But I was wrong. It was not homophobia but an awareness campaign that came off rather hate filled than enlightening. Their delivery enticed a raw reaction and by the time I had learnt how wrong I was I felt like too much of an idiot to even stick around. I could feel a split between those women and myself, a very unnecessary split. And for the first time I could see that the ‘other’ had moved away, from pride goers versus spectators towards organizers versus protesters, and dare I say… We have turned on ourselves. Why was one group so mislead in thinking that no one would care about the plight of the slain that they would resort to terror like tactics to be heard and similarly how can organizers of something as “meaningful” as pride not have taken it upon themselves to bring awareness to the degree of homophobia in our country, if they are not aware then maybe they should not be organizing something of this calibre?

Shigaff…?

Should I give a flying fuck?
Yes! Most definitely and for two very simple reasons, one – splitting the community will only make fighting for the same cause more difficult and two – we seem to have forgotten that homophobia and hate crimes are still rampant in most communities in South Africa. Where did we miss each other, when did we stop caring about atrocities such as hate crimes and what happened to the unspoken love we use to share?

By the end?

The march is over, the drinks are flowing, there is a vibe and we can all start to have a bit of fun. Why are we having fun though, does that not depoliticize the cause? In my minds eye the festivities creates a feeling of inclusivity for anyone wanting to be part of our community but that is scared because sexually they are not inclined to join but on a moral standpoint they believe in equality. So I am all for the fun – and on a personal level – the fun in celebration of the fact the we are each still alive, managing to come out of some hostile situations with our lives, long enough to celebrate the fact that we are the only country in Africa that hosts, not one, but five gay prides through the year. Celebration of the fact that we can celebrate in a park, in the sun ( some countries without a constitution like ours are forced to host pride indoors) and with local musicians that support us.
So by the time Tamara Dey is commanding my spirit to wiggle and shake, I know I am safe. Flash Republic entertains the crowd after a build up of so many superb live artists, and around me in the middle of the crowd I see faces of both sexes, of all colours and a variety of ages thrusted together in a jovial jump for the sky as we all scream along with Miss Dey, “I don’t even know your name”, and a profound beauty sprung to mind, how we don’t need to know each others name to have a love that is formulated in respect for one another (to spite the fact that I don’t think the song is actually about that). We are bound by one idea, the FREEDOM to LOVE who we please.
And since when can a little bit more love ever be a bad thing?

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Lonmin, Lonmin, Lonmin.

Before I get into it I want to get you to think of something:
What if those violent protesters got through? What if the police did not open fire? Do you think those charging men merely wanted to talk, with panga’s, knbkirries and guns in their hands? And what effect would it have had on this country?

Effect:

With violent protests breaking out in all parts of our country, I can’t help but be grateful that the unrest is somewhat a cloud of dust starting to dissipate because if those men had to get through, over power the police and start killing them, I can tell you it would have sent one message across the country “Take out the police!”, every town in our beautiful land would be under threat merely because it would look like the police are incapable of curbing the masses. To spite who is wrong and who is right. Basically, if those workers had the upper hand on the day of the massacre, it would not be the day of the massacre but the start of civil war in South Africa.

History repeating itself?

Some articles want to liken this event to Sharpeville, but in my minds eye there is a difference between a bunch of scholars protesting, chanting, dancing – fueled by the idea of Bantu education – compared to a bunch of men charging down a hillside with weapons towards armed police.
Then the notion of muti came to light. I get culture and that people have their traditions but at what point does a person turn around and say “Tradition is like magic, and the only place it belongs is in stories”. We are all brought up in a world where education s key to success. If you study hard and work hard you will achieve. Whereas traditional type of thinking, where drinking a special drink from a witch doctor will deflect speeding bullets, puts the idea that this group of people are easily swayed in terms of truth. This proves that the group of people we are talking about are not educated. So why is their education important? Because this massacre has quickly turned political, and a weak mind is a politicians playground. From the unions, to the ANC, and the Youth League, everyone is getting in there telling the remaining workers what IS happening and who IS to blame. Maybe if we want to look at a similar massacre then look no further than 1994 and the bloodshed between the ANC and the IFP, how is it similar to LoNmin? It’s politically driven.

Socio-economics.

Now there are far cries for a pay increase to R12500 and to some degree I feel this is a ploy towards international media because that kinda cash is a pipe dream for some educated people of south Africa, myself included. And the idea that a miner can earn that, makes me think twice about finishing school and going to university. If that is the salary then I should have been in the mines at sixteen. Why? I work my tits off to earn two thirds of that every month.
“But they have families.” And then I here far cries that the workers support more than just themselves, well, unfortunately life style choice should not dictate ones pay. One should not live beyond ones means, and this includes having a family. To have children and then burden society with your lack of skills as a provider is insane. If you can’t afford a child, don’t have one. But I seem to veering off the point. The point – that cash increase is unreasonable. And if other workers across the country see that Lonmin might get this increase, what do you think will happen to all the workers across the country?

What about me?

I am disappointed. Disappointed that South Africa is still the same place it was twenty years ago. Sure the presidents skin colour has changed but the fact that power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely still rings true regardless of the colour of your face. People with money think of one thing, more money. Greed my dear readers, greed pertains to only one race – the human race. So to some degree I hope that Cosatu will loose some of their power as with the ANC. Not that I want either one completely dissolved but a healthy competition, even in sectors such as unions, there will be a spread of this so called power and each individual will get closer to having a party or union that really reflects that said persons personal ambitions in life, for himself/herself and the country.

The point.

Let’s stay out of this one, stand back like spectators because there are two groups to blame, and if you are reading this I can pretty much assume you are part of neither one of those groups.

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Hey piggie

Research, it’s how we learn about the things we need to know. I recently came across an article reporting a woman’s unfair dismissal for bringing food to work that was not halaal. Now do I really have to point out the discrimination here? Whats next forcing employees to convert? And the idea that a boss knows what the chick flipping the chips out the fryer has brought for lunch sounds like creepy crazy communism. Further reading I find out that KFC is in fact a Islamist vibe. Ok, all good but what is the deal with Halaal food? What makes it so special?

Halaal, from what I can gather, can be translated, as closely as possible, as meaning permitted or lawful. It’s not about blessings or prayers or some holy man sprinkling water anywhere. From what I understand the animal is basically kept the way I would imagine organic livestock is kept. Free to roam, graze, a somewhat happy life for what is essentially just food for us. So yeah, I am all down for that else why am spending the little extra on organic (well except wine, organic wine is cheap and fantastic-balls) goods every month.

The slaughtering method is also better. A few tests measured the pain an animal slaughtered the Islam way and then on one slaughtered the western way, and the Halaal method proved to be kinder to the animal. Ok, so cool stuff, I dig that too, show my food my humanity before I take its life.

So at the end I realized that I would bye Halaal food in the way that I buy organic food, I agree completely with the method.

However, then I came across a section on how evil pork is. Admittedly I don’t eat pork other than bacon, no gammon, no chop, no steak… No pork product other than bacon. Now all that is said about the filthy pig is true to some degree, the severity may be over exaggerated a bit, but this one section just made me piss myself out loud…

The pig is the most shameless animal on the face of the earth. It is the only animal that invites its friends to have sex with its mate. In America, most people consume pork. Many times after dance parties, they have swapping of wives; i.e. many say “you sleep with my wife and I will sleep with your wife.” If you eat pigs then you behave like pigs. We look upon America to be very advanced and sophisticated. Whatever they do, we follow after a few years. According to an article in Island magazine, this practice of swapping wives has become common practice in South Asia

It made me laugh for so many reasons, because pigs love group orgys, Americans are all busy swopping wives after dinner parties and Muslims all of a sudden care about woman. And never mind that the piece on pigs started off by saying: to non-Muslims and atheists that even they could reason with logic, and the reasons for not eating pork is logical.
Pig orgy…? Logic? As if dogs are monogamous.
Then by the end they really hit the nail on the head by finishing with…

This proves that the more science advances the more Islam is shown correct as a religion of God.

… Since when do Jews eat pork, and correct me if I am wrong but hasn’t the Jewish ideals been around far longer than the Islamist? Just saying, if the science around the filth of pork proves a religions theory was right then isn’t it the first one to cross the finish line wins?

So by the end there is one thing left to ask, how does KFC manage to give all those chickens a “happy” life. In my minds eye a mass production of food requires a massive supply of product, where are all these chickens running around so free… Something smells fishy…?

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It’s a Beard, all Men can grow them.

Fayaaz Kazi, twenty seven, was murdered on Monday night in Ventersdorp outside a Chicken Lickin outlet after a fight broke out between him and two other men.

“Two white people… they called him [Osama] bin Laden in Afrikaans because of his beard…and then they called us kaffirs,” Mahmood told Sapa by telephone on Wednesday.”

Based on his appearance he was called a terrorist and, as I assume, he stood up for himself yet was met with more than just a fight between stupidity and humanity, death.

Last month I wrote a post on another hate crime in South Africa, Hate Crime where an argument over sexuality also ended in death. Another woman was attacked but “luckily” survived. Which is just a branch off of a hate crime that has plagued our beautiful country for far too long.

Gang-raped, beaten and stabbed 25 times, she was the lesbian activist and football star whose murder blew open South Africa’s hate crime epidemic.
But more than two years after the death of Eudy Simelane, the government has done nothing to halt the barbaric sex attacks dubbed ‘corrective’ rape.

Although corrective rape is a hate crime, rape is not necessarily a hate crime under the law. In terms of psychology, the offenders of hate crimes and rape derive from the same place – A profound inability to see another person as a human being. There is a difference between a man that breaks into a house and steals the home theatre system compared to the man that breaks into the house and rapes all the women in the home and then just leaves.

The Point?

I’m trying to link up all these different little acts of hate and showcase them as one huge problem, the only difference is the person being attacked. HOWEVER, all the victims I have mentioned are South Africans. As are the perpetrators. So we as South Africans must admit that this is part of our society and we are committed to changing it, it’s where we begin to eradicate this senseless and savage crime.

So what I propose to do is grow a beard. Grow it as long as I can, like a Muslim, for the obvious reason, it’s a beard plain and simple and the idea that a man can be killed from a cumulative series of events that started with some beard taunting is completely outrageous. And there is always more to a person than the appearance he gives.

At what point will I stop?

The aim is to get twenty people to physically ask me, “Yo, Bro, what’s up with the beard?” then I can tell them the story of Fayaaz, Thapelo and Eudy so that their deaths will not go in vain.

The fact is that men are the ones responsible for these crimes and not that I don’t think hate resides in women, I am just yet to see a woman actualize her hatred in a way other than verbal. So it is up to us men to stop. So I encourage any of you reading this to grow a beard, get to twenty people too. And if you are a woman reading this, remember that these criminals all have mothers some have sisters, aunts, daughters, wives or girlfriends, maybe get that man that is so close to you to understand what a hate crime is and get him to grow his beard – it will make the world of difference.

Regardless of race, creed, culture, sex and sexual preference we all have the right to live in spite of whatever others choose to believe and destroying things we can’t understand has to find an end at some point. And it’s not misunderstanding that needs the cure, but our attitudes, it’s the inability to want to understand that pushes the hatred to such volatile proportions.

Here’s to some hairy days.
Peace.

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Douche Recovery: Admitting the Hate.

Over the last 3 months there have been at least 15 attacks on gay people in the Northern Cape. In the most recent attack Miss Gay Kuruman winner 23 year old Thapelo Makutle’s throat was allegedly cut so viciously that his head was almost completely removed after an argument with 2 straight men about his sexuality.

This is the front page article of Exit Newspaper and how can it not be shocking. But sitting at my desk with a view of the ocean I feel somewhat removed from the entire incident, and that is partly where the problem comes in for me – that it’s over there. I have been prive to enough bashings but none to such a severity, in my case I was slapped around or on the odd occasion punched till I bled. But here Thapelo was murdered and his genitals were still cut from his body and shoved in his mouth (which is gross evidence of the underlying hate). So why is it worse in some places than others?

Some might want to blame the wave of Traditional Healers opting to alter the constitution to best suite them. However, I was present at the 2008 Pride in Johannesburg CBD where bricks were hurled at us from some ten floors up, shattering on the floor sending a chard in the air slicing the neck of a young lady in front of us. Therefore I cannot blame recent animosity on recent activity, alone. It’s been around for a while but it’s only getting worse.

The problem is that the constitution is a written thing and therefore, taking emotion into account, is a thought out and logical concept. So to spite the fact that the law is there to protect us, it really on serves to bring justice and let’s face it, isn’t prevention better than cure. So the idea is there, yay, but the feeling somewhere along the line is not.

so what happened is that equality comes up as more of a suggestion rather than a society, our society’s, ruling on how we should behave and tat each other. So when will this elusive equality be instilled?

Hate is an emotion and is very much part of us the way love is a part of us. But how we use these emotions is the important factor, or is it a case of our emotions leading us? If we do not control ourselves we allow our emotions to grow into something uncontainable and down right crazy. Just think of a time you were so in love yet all your actions were just crazy. Does that mean that the love is not real? No, it means you can’t handle that kind of emotion, you are not mature enough. And maturity comes from understanding.

I hate guys that don’t want to sleep with me. I hate guys that try.
I hate men who objectify women. And i hate women who refuse to objectify men.
I hate smoking sections… Anywhere. I hate it when a disgusting smoker cant sit through dinner without a smoke. I hate it when you tell me smoking is disgusting, with your Big Mac in one hand and a super sized coke in the other. And I hate that I smoke.
I hate capitalism.
I hate car guards. I hate petrol attendants. I hate those bitches that work behind the till in the grocery store. I hate fat traffic cops. I hate thin chefs. I hate waitrons with long hair. I hate hairdressers with none.
I hate Bollywood, it’s just too damn much. And what’s up with the over the top film in a place of such gross poverty? I hate big budget films. I hate Transformers… Every single fucking one of them. I hate that Fox woman, even I want to fuck her she’s so hot.
I hate a blaze of heat without a way of cooling down. I hate the cold and the constant struggle to find some warmth. I hate those single giant clouds that hinders me from having an otherwise sun filled day. I hate a grey cloud-covered sky without a single damn rain drop.
I hate fat that whines about their inner beauty. I hate muscles that can only talk about food, what to eat, when to eat and how much.
I hate Idiots that say “oh, no thanks, I don’t drink”. And I hate hearing the moron that cant handle his booze shout out at everyone obnoxiously.
I hate it when you speak to me in a language that isn’t English. And I hate your thick accent when you speak English. And I hate that I can only really speak fucking English.
I hate ignorant whites who complain too much and do too little. I hate arrogant blacks that do even less. I hate bossy women. In fact, sometimes I hate all women – oh, hey, guys, let’s help out with that whole feminist movement, equality is great, only a women has proved she can do everything a man can do, behave like a heartless cunt. I’m waiting for the delightful change feminism was suppose to bring about. I hate waiting. I hate spare time.
I hate advertising.
I hate adverts that push the happy family myth especially on late night television when those happy families should be fast fucking asleep. I hate stupid ads that rhyme or have some lame ass fucking jingle.
I hate that the world is changing so fast.
And I hate it when time seems to stand still.
I hate you for reading this and agreeing to anything I have had to say because I hate myself for being a douche bag and focusing on the hate.
Why not write a piece on the things I love… Because I would hate that

So when you look at hate, it is prevalent in all of us whether we admit it or not. The latter usually ends in the person acting out in spite of the denial so what’s the harm in simply saying it out loud, or writing it down? But the critical difference from being a person who feels to a criminal who acts is how we choose to release this hate. Even when I re-read it, it sounds crazy but as logic comes back to my head and my years of maturing come into play, it is evident that acting on any of what I just mentioned would not only be wrong but incredibly stupid. And life is far too short for stupidity.

As my brush up with the LGBTI news continued I came across a story that really takes hold of the problem in question and brings it in from over there, to right under our noses. And these two incidence are all in the span of a few weeks of each other… Tell me it’s not getting worse?
In Johannesburg, the Carlton Centre, a woman was beaten senseless by three men working in the centre as security guards. The men beat her because she kissed her girlfriend, and what seems to be popular consensus in the black community (from rural to urban) is that lesbianism can be cured through brute force and often rape. Now the security company, Protection Services, has threatened to countersue Mtshali (the woman beaten senseless) for allegedly scratching one of the men during the attack. Even when the police arrived the women were harshly recommended not to press charges. So here we have security guards, men paid to protect and trained to defend or attack, using their skills on a woman for no other reason than their own stupidity? But who is the one to deal with the after math? Mtshali. And why should we, as the LGBTI community, have to deal with the straights inability to feel compassion or have some tolerance?

So at what point is enough enough?
The law is behind these people, behind us, but for some reason the constitution seems more and more futile, just words on a piece of paper. At what point will someone, not from the LGBTI community, stand up and say “No, this is not the kind of behavior I condone in a country I call my own.”
Where are our leaders? because your ignorant, cruel and heartless people need some leadership!
What can you do?
Stopping the hate starts with you. Admit that you hate, even just a little, it’s ok. But it’s not ok to make that emotion a reality, not only for yourself but for anyone who might be involved in your heat wave of hate. Then you need to speak out about hate you come into contact with. Let’s all take a leap into 2012, homophobia is so old school and hate crimes are a disgusting display of the lack of forward thinking a progressive and developing society needs.

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