Archive for February, 2010


Tiger Out

Hey guys, wattup? I didn’t post this weekend because basically all I did was pack, pack, pack, pack, pack, pack, pack, pack, pack, pack, pack, pack, pack, pack and after all that packing, I packed, packed, packed, packed and fucking packed some more.

Fuck! Can you handle all that packing? I sure as hell couldn’t! I think I’ve lost my mind a little, jayziz! Probably shouldn’t have dicked around so much during the week…



This post is to apologise in advance for what a scrappy week this is going to be. Today at 2pm I head to Bloem, then tomorrow I nail the rest of the drive to CT, then Wednesday morning I leave for a 3 day conference with my new company where I probably won’t be able to blog.

If I could, I would blog my ass off while road trippin’, but I’m handing back my work laptop and don’t have one besides that.

BUT, I’m not a total douchebag. To keep you guys entertained while I’m away, here are this site’s top posts to date. Read ‘em slowly, maybe like one a day until I get back on the horse, that way you won’t miss me too badly / forget about me completely.

Wish me luck, and if anything bad happens, always remember that in this life, it’s better to be a slick willy than a smooth arsehole.

Here are the posts:


NO.1 â€œThe SlickTiger Guide To Klapping Gym Boet!” (Click it BOET! EAT SOME WEIGHTS!)


NO. 2 “A Sad Day For Dogs” (who knew this post would be so popular?! Weird I tell you, flippin weird) 


NO. 3 “Death By Ayoba!” (the first post that got people all antsy about this site, a classic!) 


NO. 4 “The Parlotones Irritate The Living Shit Out Of Me” (self explanatory really…) 


NO. 5 “My Top 5 Calvin & Hobbes Christmas Cartoons” (I love Calvin & Hobbes, this is why)


NO. 6 “Halloween Dos And Donts – A Course For Social Retards” (includes a dildo!)


NO. 7 “Top Billing Is Desensitising My Gag Reflex” (man did I have fun writing this one!)


NO. 8 “The Most Hungover I’ve Ever Been At Work” (DON’T read this while eating. In fact, probably DON’T read this AT ALL)


NO. 9 “Who Cares About The Killers?” (cause seriously, who the fuck does?)


NO. 10 “The One Thing I Feel Is Missing From The Interweb” (*5! Yeah! Good for you? Awesome, me too)


So yeah, enjoy! And I’ll see you guys on the other side.

Keep on keepin’ on 😉



Friday Post, A Day Late And A Dollar Short

Goodbye is a bullshit word. There’s too much finality in goodbye. I don’t say it.

The world turns, it always has, you find one another, and you find one another again and again and again, in this life and the lives to follow.

The radio station in my head has been blasting this song for the last two hours.

It’s the Velvet Underground ladies and gentlemen.

With a song that goes.

A little something.

Like this.

Say a word for Jimmy Brown
He ain’t got nothing at all
Not the shirt right of his back
He ain’t got nothing at all
And say a word for Ginger Brown
Walks with his head down to the ground
Took the shoes right of his feet
To poor boy right out in the street

And this is what he said
Oh sweet nuthin’
She ain’t got nothing at all
Oh sweet nutin’
She ain’t got nothing at all

Say a word for Polly May
She can’t tell the night from the day
They threw her out in the street
But just like a cat she landed on her feet
And say a word for Joanna Love
She ain’t got nothing at all
‘Cos everyday she falls in love
And everynight she falls when she does

She said
Oh sweet nuthin’
You know she ain’t got nothing at all
Oh sweet nutin’
She ain’t got nothing at all

Oh let me hear you!

Say a word for Jimmy Brown
He ain’t got nothing at all
Not a shirt right of his back
He ain’t got nothing at all
And say a word for Ginger Brown
Walks with his head down to the ground
Took the shoes right of his feet
To poor boy right out in the street

And this is what he said
Oh sweet nuthin’
She ain’t got nothing at all
Oh sweet nutin’
She ain’t got nothing at all
She ain’t got nothing at all
Oh sweet nutin’

She ain’t got nothing at all
She ain’t got nothing at all
She ain’t got nothing at all





The Internet Is making me retarded

When I think of the internet, I don’t think of a serious place. I don’t think of an information super-highway where top professionals can source any kind of information they want, network with colleagues and like-minded individuals and make informed business decisions, no.

When I think of the internet, I think of one big-ass playground full of kids running around with cake all over their faces.



I’ll tell you what’s happened. Thousands of years of human evolution have pushed us so far up the food chain that nothing, nothing can fuck with us, except us. Provided you live in a country that’s not wracked by war, famine, pestilence or death and you earn a steady income, chances are you’re so comfortable and bored with day to day life, whether you admit it or not, that you’ll do any fucking thing to escape the hum drum, and THAT’S what the internet has become, a giant escape hatch.

Grown men and women the world over are sending one another FAIL mails, lolcats, pyramid scheme spam (send this to 10 friends in the next 20 minutes and your penis will grow by 3 feet!), and lame joke emails that get sent to you by four different people, the last one being your own mother.



Don’t get me wrong though, I’m just as guilty as the next guy of indulging in the mindless garbage floating around on the interwebs. I enjoy a FAIL mail just as much as the next guy, but the question I often find myself asking is, What the fuck is happening to my mind?

Do you ever find yourself thinking that? All that junk we consume, all the media we are bombarded with on a daily basis, it all sits in our minds somewhere, and like a mustard seed you swallow into your lung by mistake, it’s growing in the damp and the dark and that can’t be good.

I meet these people with increasing frequency that have very clearly made it their life’s mission to completely discard the things that make them think or feel anything beyond a purely superficial level and I get ticked off when I meet people like that. We have no idea what we are capable of, it’s possibly the best part of being human. You think you know yourself and your boundaries, but you’ll find if you have the courage to step outside of your comfort zone and test those boundaries, they move.

Isn’t that the reason we exist? To grow and learn and gain as much experience as possible? Fuck, this life is a gift, you don’t know how fucking lucky you are to be living it, how fucking lucky we all are to be alive is this world of supreme chaos where in the same day, millions of people will meet and fall hopelessly in love while millions more will stand in mourning over the graves of their parents or even more heartbreaking than that, their kids.

I’m paraphrasing badly from one of my favourite movies of all time, Adaptation. You remember the bit where Kaufman goes to the script writing seminar held by Robert McKee? Well McKee ends up attacking Kaufman after Kaufman makes the statement that ‘nothing much happens’ in the world, it’s brilliant.


Nothing happens in the world? Are you out of your fucking mind? People are murdered every day. There’s genocide, war, corruption. Every fucking day, somewhere in the world, somebody sacrifices his life to save someone else. Every fucking day, someone, somewhere takes a conscious decision to destroy someone else. People find love, people lose it. For Christ’s sake, a child watches her mother beaten to death on the steps of a church. Someone goes hungry. Somebody else betrays his best friend for a woman. If you can’t find that stuff in life, then you, my friend, don’t know crap about life!



And I think this is exactly the problem this modern world of ours faces. We don’t know crap about life. We shut all that stuff out, we focus only on things that make us feel happy and make us feel good because ‘there’s enough shit in the world already’. Here’s a news flash – that ‘shit’ you refer to, that’s LIFE. Running away from the things that challenge us or scare us or force us to really feel something, isn’t LIVING, it’s just killing time and when it comes to killing time, the internet is KING.

I don’t have any answers, yet. All I got is words, fightin’ words and nothing to back them up with except my primal sincerity. Still though, I can’t shake this feeling that we’re being dumbed down, all of us, by the media we consume in nauseating quantities and worse than that, we’re enjoying it.



The Three Evilest Shots You’ll Ever Drink

If you’re the type of person who enjoys this blog, then I’m just gonna jump right in there, take a shot in the dark and guess that you probably don’t mind a drink from time to time.

You don’t mind a drink from time to time, you don’t mind going out with your friends and maybe doing a sneaky tequila or two, you have nothing against that. You don’t mind opening a fine bottle of wine and drinking the whole thing by yourself, that’s fine by you, and you don’t mind taking a hip flask of whisky to work everyday and taking large gulps under your desk when no one’s looking, you know, just to steady your hands a little.



We don’t judge here at Them’s Fightin’ Words, well unless you’re MTN, The Parlotones, 30 Seconds To Mars, a fascist pig, or any number of other things that irritate the shit out of me. I like drunks though, so you guys are safe.

In fact, a lot of my good friends are well accomplished drunks, and I’ve followed their drinking careers in some cases right from the first drink I forced them to down. You know where you stand with a drunk because the second they’ve had a few, THE TRUTH starts flowing like a fountain of milk and honey from their wet, booze soaked lips, usually with hilarious consequences.

Also, I love watching the body language of truly wasted people, especially when they’re trying to get some ass. Take this one friend of mine for example, we’ll just call him X, to avoid an awkward conversation later today. When he’s nice and lubed up he’ll approach his target, leaning backward at an angle of 45 degrees from the floor. Then once he’s made his approach, he’ll straighten up to a respectable 90 degree angle, occasionally wavering forward to 100 and backward to 80.

God help his target if she shows any kind of interest because then it’s balls to the wall, 135 degree forward leaning, right up there in her personal space. Now it’s her turn to lean backward at 45 degrees. It’s like some bizarre mating ritual perpetuated by two similarly charged magnets.



So anyway, I decided for today’s post I’d share a few priceless nuggets of information I gathered whilst living in Grahamstown and studying at Rhodes University, Where Leaders Learn… To Drink.

And no, I don’t know your friend’s sister Kirsty who went there to study a BSC, or your mate Rhino who was part of the surf club so let’s not even go there ok? I went to Rhodes I remember NO ONE! I leave all that remembering bullshit up to other people cause yesterday’s got nothin’ for me, pictures that I’ll always see, time just fades the pages in my book of memories.

Here are the three EVILEST shots ever invented. I sincerely hope you never have to drink any of these. Rhodes students invented these. Yeah, that bad.





Not a very original name for a shot, I’ll be the first to admit that, but when you’re caught in the hazy deluge of a three-day drinking binge, these things seldom matter.

For this particularly potent assault on sobriety, you’ll need the following:

  • 1 x double shot glass
  • 1 x shot of absinthe
  • 1 x shot of stroh rum
  • 1 x draught glass
  • 1 x lighter
  • 1 x bent straw

Ok? Are you picking up what I’m laying down here? It goes like this: You pour the absinthe and stroh into the shot glass and light it. You hold the draught glass upside down over the flaming mess, catching as many fumes as possible before putting the draught glass down over the shot glass, thus neatly extinguishing said flaming mess. Carefully sneak the shot glass out from the draught glass, being careful not to let the fumes escape and SMASH the shot in your face.

Then, quick as possible, put the short end of the bent straw under the draught glass and suck the fumes in like a bong hit. I watched someone pass out instantly when doing this once, so maybe tie yourself to something first.





Specially designed for the shoe-string budget drinker, this is by far the MOST FUCKED you’ll ever get on one shot. I’ve been there. I have the scars to prove it.

For this suicidally retarded foray into drunken oblivion, you’ll need the following:

  • 1 x shot of stroh rum
  • 1 x shot glass FULL of sugar
  • 1 x round slice of lemon, with rind

Can you see where this is going? I think you can see where this is going. This is going straight to shit, do not pass go, do not collect 200.

First empty the entire shot glass of sugar into your mouth. You’ll be surprised how much sugar a shot glass can hold. Swill it around a little to get it moist and then pop the entire lemon slice, rind and all into your mouth and chew it up but good.

By this stage your mouth will be so full your cheeks will be in real danger of rupturing. Now somehow get that shot of stroh in there and swallow the lot. Sit down for 15 minutes and for god’s sake, no matter how ‘fine’ you feel, DON’T drink anything else. Now stand up, walk around a little and marvel at how completely wasted you’ve just become.

Make an educated decision at this point, ask yourself ‘Can I handle any more booze?’ O’course y’can! Ffffaahk!

This will be the last thing you remember.





This shot should not be drunk by ANYONE. It was invented by barmen at Champs Action Bar shortly before the place was closed down. Champs was frequented mainly by truck drivers, correctional services officers, criminals and students who were into metal and didn’t mind spending their evenings watching people fight one another with broken bottles and screwdrivers (true story).

So anyway, there is nothing cute or clever about this shot. To make it you need:

  • 1 x double shot glass
  • Bit of tequila
  • Throw in some stroh rum
  • Fuck it, why not some whisky
  • Vodka’s definitely a winner
  • Some amarula cream so it can curdle instantly
  • And why not finish that bad boy off with a healthy dollop of Tobasco sauce?

Does that sound like fun to you? I had no idea what it was when I bought it because I was already pretty hammered. The sign behind the bar said ‘Don’t be a pussy! Try The Sacred Shit Of Satan.’

‘I’m no goddam pussy!’ I slurred, ‘gimme Satan’s shit!’

Yeah. Boy did I regret that decision.

So there you have it guys, three fun ways to spend a night slurring incoherently, hitting on ugly strangers and starting fights that trust me, you’ll lose.

Hahaha! Good times I tell ya, good times 🙂



Why I Don’t Play Action Cricket

Look, I don’t want to start this post on the wrong foot here ok? This is about why I don’t play action cricket, I’m totally down with the fact that you might play action cricket, playing action cricket is a perfectly acceptable pastime that thousands of mentally disabled people engage in worldwide, keeps them from banging the cat, I’m cool with that.



In fact, one of my best and severely mentally disabled friends, The Glaze, used to play action cricket every Friday with his buddies from work, that’s how open minded I am about the whole thing.

They were part of some league or other, which meant they played against a whole bunch of other tards who’d formed these ‘work buddy’ teams to encourage healthy socialising outside of working hours.

But let’s be honest, these ‘work buddy’ teams only exist because three or four douchebags in the office are FUCKING AMAZING at EVERY CONCEIVABLE SPORT and so they rope in a whole bunch of other guys who really suck at sport so that the douchebags can laugh at and humiliate the others in public.

If some guy at work came up to me and said, “Hey dude, we’re starting an action cricket team, it’s gonna be rad bro! We play every Friday after work, have a couple of beers, it’s chilled, wanna sign up?”

My reply would be, “I’m sorry. Friday nights are when I masturbate furiously to re-runs of ‘Murder She Wrote’. Sounds retarded doesn’t it? Yeah, well so does action cricket.”



See, The Glaze didn’t have the malevolence in his spirit to perceive the trap he had wandered into by agreeing to play action cricket in a ‘work buddy’ team until it was too late.

And so there he’d be on Friday evenings, NOT enjoying a few sneaky libations with the rest of his real life friends, but rather stuck in some day-glo green astro-turfed nightmare, trying with all the skill he could muster to hit a ball with a plank of wood.

Just wait, it gets better.

At some stage during their league games, the office douchebags decide to implement a new rule. The person with the lowest score has to drink a HUGE mouthful of warm beer, not out of a glass, no, that would be too easy. Not out of a shoe either, also not degrading enough.

Instead, the player with the lowest score was forced to drink a HUGE mouthful of warm beer out of the communal ball-box.

Two things immediately struck me when The Glaze broke this news one evening in shame – a) Why the fuck did they all use the same ball-box? and b) WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH THEM?!

At this stage let me just make one thing clear. By ‘ball-box’, I’m not referring to a box that balls come in, I’m referring to the moulded piece of hard plastic that players wear to protect their sweaty junk from injury.



Surely at the exact point that someone suggests you play for stakes like that is when any sane person makes any excuse imaginable to get the fuck out of there?

What’s really funny though is how badly The Glaze’s team sucked. By the end of it all I think they’d lost every game except for two. They still got medals for effort though, every player in the team, which really cracks me up because The Glaze got the lowest score four or five times, once even managing to score –12, so in my estimation, he must have drank about a pint of ball-box beer.

Unfortunately he took his medal out with him on Friday night and by mistake lost it, which made me laugh so hard I cried because who in God’s name would want to walk around clubs and bars with a medal they got for drinking ball-box beer?

“Hi cutie, nice medal, what’s it for?”

“Drinking ball-box beer.”

“Oh my GOD!”

“What is it Tracy?”

“That guy’s an action cricketer!”

“Ok, stay the fuck away from us freak or I’m calling the Police!”

But what really cracked me up is the fact that the poor dude’s downed a pint of ball-box beer and now he’s got nothing to show for it! Hahahahaha! Double-edged sword muthufukkah!



The lesson here kids is never let your ‘work buddies’ rope you into any kind of sporting activity that you aren’t a semi-pro at or they’ll finally have that opportunity they’ve been waiting for to make you drink their ball-sweat.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you 😉



SlickTiger is THE KING of First Impressions

Hey Party People, wassappenin?

If you’re a loyal TFW reader, I think I should probably start by apologising for being a lazy bastard over the weekend and not posting (it was actually a pretty epic weekend because I by mistake smashed my buddy Peggles’ massive glass table while we were playing darts and I feel really bad about that) and also not posting sooner today, it’s been too hectic.



But enough of that crap. I’m done grovelling, time to tell you why I’m the KING of first impressions. This is pretty epic.

Here’s the dealy-o (skip this bit if you know me / read this blog often): I’m packing up my life and heading down to Stellenbosch in exactly one week’s time so that I can join my gorgeous lady J-Rab down there and start a new life together, VERY exciting times for your buddy ‘ol pal Slick.

I’ve even got a new job lined up that starts at 8am sharp next week Wednesday because no, I don’t fuck around, I kill everything I see, that’s why God has a hard-on for me (name the movie I bastardised that from and win a prize!).

What’s pretty damn cool is that my new company wants me to start so soon because they’re going on a 3 day conference to kick the year off where we get to know the company, our colleagues, and even have guest speakers come in and speak about industry trends, etc, etc.

I couldn’t possibly think of a better way to start out at a company. After those 3 days of team-building exercises and ‘getting to know you’ sessions, I’ll start work on Monday pretty much knowing EVERYONE! SORTED!



Only thing I’m a little nervous about is the high female to male ratio at this conference, which I estimate to be about 20:3. I don’t like standing up in front of an entire audience of women because I get really self-conscious and say really stupid things that make me cringe when I think back on them.

One of the first things we’re doing is a ‘getting to know you’ game where you have to stand up in front of everyone and show them a ‘hidden talent’ you have.

I thought of doing a couple of one-arm pushups at first, cause those are pretty amazing, until I realised that I can’t do one-arm pushups. What? You try it! That shit’s HARD!

Then I thought of telling everyone I’m really good at smelling stuff and when they ask to prove it I’ll take a few deep whiffs and then say, ‘Yep. Definitely smelling stuff.’

But then fuck! Outta nowhere! I finally figure EXACTLY what I’m going to tell them.

Before I launch into it, I’d just like to thank The MAEN! for inspiring this one. I am nothing without you, this blog is nothing without you. Is it ok if I show them the picture of your penis? It is? Cool, you just boosted my viewership by probably about 350.



So anyway what I’ll tell them is that I’m really good at sex.

‘I’m really good at sex,’ I’ll tell them, ‘you laugh, but it’s true. The other day I was having sex with a woman in Haiti and she said it was so amazing, it felt like the earth was moving beneath her.’

Here I’ll pause for a moment while everyone laughs politely.

‘Ok, hahahaha, yeah, she didn’t really say that…’ I’ll concede sheepishly.

‘She was dead.’

Da doom…




Valentine’s Day Post

Valentine’s Day is definitely my favourite Hallmark Holiday because it very neatly divides the world into two factions – people who are in a relationship and people who aren’t or, in layman’s terms, people who will get ass and people who wish they were getting ass.



So logically, when V-day rolls around one of two things will happen to you, (please keep in mind I’m writing this from a male perspective because, well, that’s what I am):

Thing Number One

A sudden and inexplicable panic will strike you. “Fuck!” you’ll think to yourself, “is it Valentine’s Day already?! Fuck! What the hell should I get her? No wait, screw that, why the fuck should I get her anything just because some greeting card company says so? Fuck it, I’ll just explain the retarded logic behind it all to her and suggest we just forget it this year…”

This will not end well. Your girlfriend is not stupid, she knows it’s a bullshit marketing ploy, BUT she’ll be damned if her friends are being spoilt rotten by their boyfriends while she files her nails and watches you play X-Box.



Play along. If you get it right she might reward you by inviting that friend of hers who posed in FHM once over for a threesome. Not likely, but hey, a guy can dream.

Thing Number Two

A sudden and inexplicable hatred will strike you. “Fuck!” you’ll think to yourself, “it’s Valentine’s day and I’m single – AGAIN! I hate everyone in a relationship right now! They make me want to puke! Valentine’s day makes me want to puke! Romance is shit! I’m going to a ‘fuck Valentine’s Day party’ to get wasted, I’m not even going to try to hook up with anyone I’m so pissed off! But y’know… if it happens I won’t say no… could be quite nice actually…’

For the longest time in my life I was a ‘Thing Number Two’ kinda guy, a TNT man if you will, because I have chronically bad luck when it comes to Valentine’s Day and have only spent ONE Valentine’s Day with a girlfriend.

How. Sad. Is. That?

Remember Valentine’s Day back in highschool? What a giant clusterfuck of competing adolescent egos, man-o-man! I remember slouching my way over to the school hall with my buddies with this feeling of mounting dread welling up inside me as we took our seats and our school prefects (who all got dressed up in drag for some ungodly reason) started pumping rave ‘choons’ and handing out valentines to the lucky assholes whose girlfriends / crushes had decided to make a public display of their affection.



And there the rest of us sat, our hearts full of hope, our heads bobbing like meerkats every time we thought we’d heard our names called, only to have that hope crushed into the dirt when yet again, we left the school hall empty handed and went behind the school bathrooms to smoke some heroin.

I call this the ‘Charlie Brown Scenario’ because let’s be honest, that kid’s a big, fat loser that nobody, not even the kids watching the show, ever liked. Where the fuck is his hair?! Fucking Progeria-ridden motherfucker – wear a wig for chrissakes!

Anyway, I call it the Charlie Brown Syndrome because of the fucking infuriating way he would always run up to kick the football Lucy was holding, only to be duped by the bitch, time and time again, as she pulled away at the last minute.

EVERYONE saw it coming. EVERY kid watching that show was like, ‘”Charlie Brown you fucking moron, don’t fucking fall for that sneaky little whore’s tricks! Get the fuck outta there, go! Run away! Eat some rocks you got from Halloween or something, anything!”



But the goddamn tard never listened to reason, did he? Well, I felt like that goddamn tard every time Valentine’s Day rolled around, convincing myself that this time, Lucy was going to keep her finger on that football but no, the slut never did and I left the hall with nothing but a desperate longing to burn the school to the ground.

And surprise surprise, this year’s no different. I’m stuck up here in Joburg while J-Rab is down in Stellenbosch and yes, I know it’s just a dumb fucking fabricated event to encourage mass consumerism, but I’d give anything to spend it with her.

We’ve been dating for three years in October and never spent Valentine’s Day together, but you bet your ass when that day finally comes there’ll be a fucking parade in the streets!

There’ll be all the roses in the world built up into massive, red, heart-shaped floats and hundreds of fat little dwarf dudes in togas with tiny white feathery wings on, and when we reach the city centre we’ll release a hundred thousand red and white balloons that will float toward the clouds and into jet engines everywhere.



It will be epic 😉

But until then if you, like me, are spending Valentine’s Day away from your loved one, just remember this: yes, it may be lonely and depressing and yes, there’s a good chance that you’ll feel like a big fat loser but it’s nothing, nothing a little heroin can’t fix 😉

Happy Valentine’s Day.



Wonderboy Life’s Just Begun…

You gotta love The Kinks, because they’re fucking cool. If you don’t know who they are, please stop reading this blog immediately and go out and buy at least 5 of their albums. In this instance I don’t even mind if you buy the ‘Best Of’ collections, that’s ok, in this instance, because I just want you to get into them and that’s probably the best way.



They’re like The Beatles, only they never got as huge, which is really sad. Their music is way better than The Beatles in my over-inflated opinion, with the exception of The Beatles White Album – THAT fucking album is amazing. ‘Rocky Racoon’ all the way, that’s my favourite Beatles’ song of all time.

Anyway, once you’ve bought the compulsory 5 The Kinks albums I mentioned earlier, find the track ‘Wonderboy’ and play that fucker on repeat until you hear it in your dreams.

I heard it the first time back in varsity and it’s been there ever since, playing somewhere in the background of my life.

I appreciate irony, in fact, I thrive on it because it’s one of the most powerful forces that governs our world, and the song ‘Wonderboy’ is loaded to the gills with irony.

The lyrics are hilarious because Ray Davies (singer and frontman) sings them in this sing-song way that sounds a bit like a nursery rhyme, with this limp and lifeless vocal tone that sounds a lot like he’s just fucking given up with life and the combination of these two things, for me, makes me piss myself laughing.

Wonderboy life’s just begun / Turn that sorrow into wonder / Dream alone, don’t sigh, don’t groan / Life is only what you wonder

I arrived at work this morning and started playing random songs and “Wonderboy” came on and I couldn’t help but smile because over the course of the last day, my life really has turned to wonder.

As you may already know, I’m moving to Cape Town at the end of Feb because J-Rab was offered a killer job at Cheetah Outreach in Stellenbosch which came with free accommodation on Eikendal Wine Estate, very fucking cool.



The only snag of course was that I didn’t have anything lined up in Cape Town, which I think was contributing to the impending sense of doom that was creeping up on me a few weeks back.

Well, I’m fucking relieved to say I was offered a job yesterday at an awesome PR agency in Cape Town, which is going to be a great step forward in terms of my career and which means I got nothing to worry about except packing my life up and hitting the open road.

Sometimes in life you just gotta let go. Sometimes you’ve got to put a little trust in whatever Gods may be and have the courage to accept that things have this funny way of working out for the best if you just let them.

Cause really, in the end of the day everybody’s looking for the sun and yes, people strain their eyes to see, but I see you and you see me.

And ain’t that wonder? 😉



Porn saved my life

What’s pretty rad about living in the modern world is there’s not really any stigma attached to porn anymore, provided it’s regular porn and not 2Girls1Cup porn or 1Man1Jar porn (hadn’t heard of that one had ya? Google it! Do it now!).

This means that as long as you’re not at work and you’re a single guy or have an open-minded girlfriend, you can pretty much watch porn to your heart’s content and no one’s going to think any worse of you… except your parents. They might be a little creeped out by the copy of ‘Weapons of Ass Destruction 5’ you keep stashed under your pillow and come to think of it, so am I.



Ask any guy and they’ll probably tell you they’ve learnt a lot of valuable lessons from porn, like the perks of being a TV repair man for example or how to make light of an awkward situation like walking in on your wife and the babysitter dressed in leathers and lubing up a cucumber.

But how many guys can say that porn has saved their lives?

Well, porn saved my life. I did a solo road trip about three years ago from Joburg to Colesburg to Storms River to Cape Town then to Colesburg again and finally back to Joeys.

It was an epic trip and I had all kinds of cool adventures along the way, well at least I think I had all kinds of cool adventures because to be honest, I don’t remember much of what went down.

One minute I’m having a sokkie-jol with the locals at The Blue Moon in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere, next I’m arm wrestling one pasty Brit after the next at Djembe Backpackers Lodge, next I’m dislocating my arm in a swimming pool (long story) and popping it back in myself in Kommetjie, next I’m wandering around Vortex somewhere in Paarl with a giant pink sombrero listening to a total stranger rattle on about how the entire story of Christmas evolved from people eating too many magic mushrooms in the forest and staring at reindeer.



It was a holiday so badass I needed a holiday after it just to recover and actually ended up taking two day’s sick leave when I got back because I had bronchitis and felt like hell.

Thing about the trip was that I did every leg of serious driving more hungover than the last and all I can say is never, never subject yourself to that kind of torture. It got so bad that unless I’d swallowed three packets of McNabs Energy Tabs and downed two Red Bulls before hitting the road, I was about as useful behind the wheel as a blind monkey with one arm.

Once I’d taken the edge off my hangovers all that was left to do was keep my eyes on the road, concentrate and drive. Then drive some more. Then drive some more. Then after that, you guessed it, lunch at Wimpy, yum!

Bottom line is I was dead tired for the last couple of trips I did and tried everything to stay awake – winding the windows down, playing music loud, biting my cheeks really hard, slapping my face really hard, having a conversation with myself in numerous different voices, drinking lots of orange juice, singing the theme songs of every old TV show I ever saw (‘Come and knock on our dooooooor, we’ve been waiting for yoooooouuuuu”) and eventually pulling all my nose hairs out, one every 15 minutes.



It’s all bullshit. None of it fucking worked. All that happened was I got funny looks at the petrol stations I stopped at because my hair was a bird’s nest, my face was bright red, my nose was bleeding and I kept chewing my cheeks and singing the A-Team theme song under my breath.

I knew I’d hit rock bottom when, whilst driving between Cape Town and Colesburg I looked up to see an entire family of cute little dassies crossing the road and mowed down everyone of them.

I had to find a way to stay awake, those dassies never did a damn thing to me and there I was, smearing them across the road like lumpy jam.



Suddenly God, or some kind of divine entity, parted the clouds above me and in a epiphanic moment, an infinite reel of every porn movie I’ve ever seen started playing in my head.

It was everything from the classics like “Bang Hur”, “King Dong” and “Laurence of a Labia” to modern day titles such as “Position Impossible”, “In Diana Jones And The Temple Of Poon” and “How Stella Got Her Tube Packed” (don’t ask).

I’ve never been so alert whilst driving in my entire life. My only regret is that I didn’t figure this miracle cure for drowsiness sooner!

So the next time your parents / landlord / boss / the police walk in on you appreciating some fine pornographic material and try to evict / fire / arrest you tell ‘em straight up, “Hey, do you mind! I’m fucking saving countless lives here ok?! Christ, knock next time!”

Hey presto! Problem solved 😉



The SlickTiger Guide to Klapping Gym Boet!

As an oke with lots of mates who are also okes I can tell you straight that it’s every oke’s dream to get MASSIVE AND RIPPED and bang two hot blondes AT THE SAME TIME!

Once an oke has achieved this goal, he is happy and can spend the rest of his life sitting on the couch, drinking beer, watching sports and TELLING OTHER PEOPLE WHAT TO DO.

He has earned this right, nobody can take this right away from him and with my help you can earn this right too, but first you gotta learn the proper way to KLAP GYM BOET! or you’ll always be a loser who can’t pull hot chicks and spends friday nights at home twitting with his loser friends on the interweb.


The first step to klapping gym boet is to buy a fucking TIGHT VEST. This will intimidate your opponents in the gym and make the hot chicks there stare at you and you will be able to lift 15% heavier weights from the confidence boost it will give you.

Confidence is everything. A wise man once told me if you don’t have confidence, fuck off, and he was right.

Ideally, you want your vest to show your biceps, triceps, delts, traps, lats, pecs, but NOT NIPPLES! That’s flippin’ gay.




Everyone knows that to klap it PROPERLY in the gym you need to be as tanned AS CAN BE! Having a GREAT TAN in the gym will not only make all your muscles look RIPPED, but it will also show all the chicks checking you out that, yes, you are an outdoors kind of guy and not some gay moffie who’s scared to lie in the sun for 13 hours wearing a thong.

I went onto the internet to show you just how ripped and amazing okes look with a little bit of a tan.



The charna in the above photo has NAILED not only a flippin’ AMAZING tan, but also a hot blonde belter who probably called her friend who was also a hot blonde belter right after this picture was taken so they could bang this guy. AT THE SAME TIME!

His arm is MASSIVE and covered in veins. Fuck, I can’t look at this picture anymore. FUCK! I’m jealous…



What can I say about this charna’s AWESOME tan that would do ANY JUSTICE to him or how AWESOME he is? Look at his even, brown / orange skin tone, flippin’ HARDCORE man! Look at the clear line between his pecs – proof that this charna likes to KLAP THE GYM! AND HARD!

Such a shame about the bladdy rough chick on his left though, but I’m sure with a bit of blonde hair dye, 70 hours in the sun, 6 months in the gym and lekker big fake tits, she’d look ok. Not flippin’ hot. But ok. He could do better.



Please go back up and just look at this photo one more time. Please just do that RIGHT NOW CAUSE THIS OKE’S TAN IS MAKING ME KAK MY PANTS HIS FLIPPIN TAN IS SO AWESOME!

Look how MASSIVE AND RIPPED he is! You don’t need to tell an oke like this how to KLAP GYM BOET, he wrote the BOOK! He’s also wearing a backwards cap and sunglasses IN THE GYM, so automatically plus 40% to his confidence which means he will be able to lift 75% heavier weights!

Now THAT’S what a kief tan can do for YOU!


Step three is a crucial one, this is SERIOUS now, so PAY ATTENTION, I”M ONLY GONNA SAY THIS ONCE.

In a gym situation you are nothing, NOTHING! without your charnas. You think you can get flippin RIPPED and MASSIVE and bang two hot blonde chicks at the same time if you train by yourself? Fuck boet, are you stupid?

The okes you train with are your CHARNAS! They are your BROTHERS! They will be there for you to tell you ‘Fuck boet, you look HUGE!’ and ‘I want 5 MORE! I FLIPPIN’ WANT FIVE MORE!’ and ‘Is that a new vest? Flip boet, it really brings out the colour of your eyes.’

Without your charnas you are NOTHING! You’ll have NO ONE to shout at and NO ONE will stare at you in the gym, shaking their heads because they can’t believe how MASSIVE AND RIPPED you and your charnas are!

Look at these charnas. They obviously gym together. Look at the blonde belter the one oke is gonna bang with her best friend who is also a blonde belter as soon as she gets back from having her boobs juiced up to the max.

Flippin’ awesome.




As with most things in life, an important part of klapping gym boet is knowing when to stop. There is a time in every Gym Boy’s life when he looks at himself, RIPPED and MASSIVE in the mirror and thinks to himself ‘I can’t even wipe my own arse anymore. Have I gone too far?’

Well, I’m here to tell you the answer to that question is NO!

When is it time to stop getting MASSIVE? NEVER!

Lots of chicks will say that they ‘Don’t like a man who is too massive’, but they’re flippin’ lying cause they LOVE IT! They’re just scared of his muscles, and can we blame them? NO!

Take a look at this photo and tell me who’s going to win this ‘Who is the MASSIVEST?’ competition:



Let’s see. Is it going to be Mr ‘I look like Eddie Murphy in a red speedo’ there on the right? Or maybe Mr ‘I thought about injecting horse growth hormones but decided not to’ there in the middle?

NO! Fuck, are you stupid?! It’s going to be the FLIPPIN’ HUGE OKE on the right who’s so MASSIVE AND RIPPED his two blonde belter girlfriends have to brush his teeth for him and doctors say he won’t live past 35! KLAP IT BOET!

Do you think he’d ever be that MASSIVE AND RIPPED if he just GAVE UP?! Please man. Don’t be thick.

Here’s another example:



This oke is so massive he can just go around putting his hand on blonde belter’s boobs ALL THE TIME and they don’t even mind, in fact, they ENJOY IT because they know he could uppercut their HEADS OFF if they tried to stop him.

What a LEGEND! Any second her blonde belter friend’s going to arrive and you KNOW what’s going to happen then! Flippin’ AWESOME!

I think I’ve proved my point about step four, NEVER GIVING UP, but just to make sure, I’ll ask you one last question.

Do you think this man, this old man, could EVER! EVER! have gotten so MASSIVE AND RIPPED if he’d known when enough was enough?




The last and final step to klapping gym boet is the nutritional step, because unless you eat right and inject dangerous steroids daily, you’ll never get RIPPED CHARNA!

Eating right means eating PROTEIN ALL THE TIME, CONSTANTLY, WITHOUT EVEN STOPPING, because this way you’ll show your body that NO! You don’t need any flippin’ fat! You don’t need to store any nutrition, you’re shoving it in your face CONSTANTLY!

Injecting dangerous steroids daily means experiencing violent mood swings, possibly because of the steroids and also possibly because your cheloger is ONLY ONE INCH LONG!

But seriously boet! Come off it man! Who needs a normal-sized cheloger when you’ve got two blonde belters, one on each arm ready to BANG YOU BECAUSE YOU’RE SO MASSIVE AND RIPPED!?

Fuck man! Are you stupid?

Now go out there and KLAP SOME GYM BOET!