Now the year stretches ahead with weeks to go till our next general strike public holiday. What are we going to think up to screw the economy till then? Ah yes! The folks at Eskom who shed more load than a 70's porn star have an idea. Remember the days when candlelit dinners were romantic, not compulsory? Should you be lucky enough to find a restaurant still open, steaks now come "Medium", "Rare" and "Fucking Eskom AGAIN!"

Our rulers conference and lekgotla endlessly to divvy up the rewards of Comrade Zuma's inexorable rise. (Insert your own Viagra advert.) Meanwhile, to combat a violent crime tsunami, we make 15-year-old teenagers kissing a criminal offence while respecting the right of a 12-year-old to obtain a legal abortion without informing her parents,.

The petrol price seems set to get higher than a Rastafarian astronaut and I sincerely hope you're baked, otherwise you may just start to feel uneasy as the giant, Duracell bunny, perpetual motion, frequent fuck-up machine rolls on.

Enjoy the ride!

Okay, okay. I don't know the whole story. Apparently, Manto threatened to "fix" her. Frankly, fixing anything is not a term I associate with our health minister, so I don't know which side of the story to believe. Maybe Madlala-Routledge's no fun to work with. Maybe she's not the life and soul of whatever wild party it sounds like you guys are having while we think you're governing the country. After all, she's only on her first liver. I'm reminded of the old bit of advice... How do you know if politicians are lying?
Look at the lips.
If they're moving, they're lying.

Stay healthy!

Al

I admit the comparison isn't perfect, American football, with its penile helmets, makes a better image. Our guys don't bother with the headgear; a 3-inch thick skull protecting an oval shaped amoeba obviates the need for them. And American cheerleaders have actually made real, classic blue movies, whereas ours just dance like they'd do anything for the free bus ride out of Bloemfontein.

In the supermarket aisle I'm constantly picking my way around 120kg of bovine indifference wearing genuine (bought from the vendor at the traffic lights) Springbok jerseys. They're easily the most impressive physical specimens in the place, if you like your men super-sized and strong and dead at 45 from a coronary and the rugby gear makes them look even tougher. But what's the point? This is South Africa. You're expected to support the Springboks! You'd look tougher wearing an Aussie jersey. I got into trouble just wearing a different shirt on a big match day even though we weren't actually in the stadium. Okay, the "Gay Vegetarian Atheists for Robert Mugabe" slogan might have had something to do with it, but still... Some schlub pulls up next to me at a petrol station and accuses me of not having green blood like everybody else. Green blood, the new rallying cry of rugby.

"Hoekom is jou bloed nie groen nie?" (Why don't you have green blood?)

I guess if I did, that would make me some sort of exotic insect instead of a garden-variety moron like you.

It's the kind of playful repartee you hear on the road now that most bars are installing Imax sized TV sets so that drunks with masculinity issues can be maximally hyped up before they get into their cars and face the traffic. Watching rugby, the sport where you all wear the same colour and beat the crap out of everybody who looks different is tailor made to bring out the worst instincts in liquored up, white South Africans. And yes, I know there have been huge efforts put in to popularise the game amongst other races. Massive amounts of money has gone into getting people in townships interested in kicking and passing and diving headfirst between another man's buttocks, but most of them seem allergic to stupidity.

Ah well, time to confess. Call me unpatriotic, but if the competition gets interesting, I'll watch the games with a boozed up tear in my eye like I did in '95. And I'll cheer for the Springboks or Proteas or whatever we call them that week. You know who I mean, the okes with the green insect blood. Maybe if each player had 6 legs and 2 pairs of wings, we might even win.

Once again, I apologise.

Al

Go Here - IndeContent

CONTENT ADVISORY: You need a credit card to buy the movie, so I'm assuming you're an adult. So are the themes and language of this performance. I don't think there's anything too shocking about it, but if you're incredibly sensitive and hiding out on the internet, because sunlight hurts, then beware.

Our style is deliberately rough with a "bootleg" feel to give the viewer a taste of the atmosphere in a typical South African comedy venue. Besides, we had a budget to rival the Botswana Olympic Curling Squad. Everything was done live and in a single take to preserve authenticity and to minimise distractions for the audience. Their reactions, and their heckles, are genuine. This is real, up close and personal.

Behind the camera and behind the scenes, this project has been nursed into life and hammered into shape by Doug Hoseck who shot, edited and sweated over it every step of the way. His input has been invaluable.

For those of you who live in South Africa under the iron fist of internet traffic caps, we have created a smaller download (video quality) of 344Mb. This means you can get the jokes before all the characters mentioned die of old age. If you want the DVD quality bigger file, it might be cheaper and quicker to fly to Hong Kong and download the movie than buy another few gigs from our wonderful fixed line operator. But feel free to be our guest and try your luck anyway.

If you have special people living overseas... basically, this means all of us... you can also buy the movie and send the download link to your friend or family member. It's the kind of gift that'll make the buggers nostalgic enough to come home for the holidays.

We'd sincerely like to hear what you think of "Of Course I'll Still Respect You In The Morning". It's been a labour of love. All you need to do is download and have a laugh.

Sharp!

Al Prodgers

Performing in Toronto was a fever dream come true. I won my first round and took part in the final show with seven other winners. Seeing as upwards of two thousand comics entered from at least six countries, I'm very proud to have made it to the big night, even though I didn't scoop the grand prize. My congratulations to Paul Myeraugh, the winner.

I also got the opportunity to watch some really cool international acts, meet very funny people and several North American industry heavyweights who said complimentary things like, "You didn't suck."

And my eternal gratitude to all the people at Yuk Yuks, namely Mark Breslin, Kyle, Shannon, Beth and all those whose name I was too boolahlah'd on fine Canadian microbrew to remember. Hope to see you all in Africa soon.

I'd like to tell you about our quiet family holiday season, but I won't lie. We have a puppy, so rush hour rides in low flying minibus taxis are more peaceful. Living with a baby Doberman is like sharing your home with Genghis Khan on "tik" (crystal-meth).

The only opportunity I get to read the newspaper is when I'm picking up the soggy remnants of our futile attempts at house-training the little monster. The puppy's choice of whose faces to wipe her bum on shows that she's already developed an astute political sensibility.

However, I did see grisly photos of Saddam's execution on every front page. Coming from a country that used to murder its own citizens, I have no right to any moral high ground, but I'm truly glad we have abolished the death penalty. And I give thanks that I don't live in an oil rich state ruled by bloodthirsty religious fundamentalists. Like Texas.

But I do have thoughts on the fitting punishment for starting wars...

Whichever side they're on, I hope the real monsters who give the orders to the planters and droppers of bombs never get the death sentence. I hope they are sentenced to life. And when they're 110 years old and it's time to die, the sentence still stands.
"Life".
Hooked up to a machine and kept alive. For ever. So that they never ever get to go to that heaven they so badly wanted to see.

At least for the rest of the season, let's hope cruelty takes a break too.
Al

2. The Namib Desert has no oil, but on the plus side, it doesn't have any Americans either. There is no better illustration of the stupidity of men than the fact that we actually fought a war over this place.

3. Windhoek is a city of 200 000 people and twice as many speed humps. If an animal dies in the road, they simply tar over it.

4. South Africa and Namibia have a lot in common. We both sell the same shit to tourists.

5. The kind of tourist who shops in Dubai could buy South Africa and Namibia.

6. Somebody, while shopping in duty free (Doha) will utter the words, "Just what I've been searching for, a diamond encrusted iPod!"

7. The same sentence will not be heard in Windhoek.

8. At Abu Dhabi immigration we had to have a retinal scan. I'd never undergone one of those before and much preferred it to the anal probe.

9. I was travelling with a friend who looks a bit Arabic and he was offered to go to the front of every queue... Obviously profiling is not always such an insult.

10. Everybody smokes. Everywhere. All the time.

11. In Dubai it is unnecessary to caution people not to drink and drive, but it might be a good idea to tell them to stop dropping acid and designing skyscrapers.

12. Local people in Windhoek are very friendly. This may be because they're pissed.

13. I wish I had met more local people in the UAE, but they don't mingle with the help.

14. On the plane home I open the British Esquire, GQ and Premier magazines I bought in Abu Dhabi duty free. Some pages are stuck together, because a censor has painted out nipples, etc, crudely daubing them with black ink. Flashback to the nipple stars and verboten pubes of 70's South Africa... I settle in for the flight and think about how far we've come.

Sharp,

Al

Visitors say they're cute and nod approvingly about them being "free range". I suppose they really are free to go where they want. Personally I don't care if they set off down to the bus stop or wander into Nando's of their own accord...

"I'm so impressed with your store... Why, yes, I would like to try a complimentary sample of Lemon and Herb aftershave."

I would just prefer not to own chickens.

I'm not sure being free does them any good. Where are you going to go as a chicken? Other animals at least have sanctuary, a place where nobody eats them. Nobody's going to chow a cow in India. Pigs are off the menu in Palestine. But everybody eats chickens. Even vegetarians eat chicken to give them something to feel morose about. It's hard being a creature without a sympathetic prophet. What do you do when you can't hide and you can't run? Much.

This is freaky. I was going to write a blog about moving house, but I'm being hypnotised by poultry. The force is strong with them. I feel the weight of their metaphor in everything I type. The act of buying a house with borrowed money suddenly feels like putting all my eggs into one basket. Actually, it's more like putting all our eggs, the rest of our possessions, plus pets, wife and testicles in one basket, slamming the lid and waiting to see if something good happens. Maybe I shouldn't worry. Everybody goes into debt to buy a house. Maybe I'm just being chicken.

The fowl nod and cluck disapprovingly at their reflections in the window, or possibly at me on the other side of the glass. Life's one long hen party, even if it only lasts until Christmas, and it won't end there because they've probably worked out that I won't kill them. I'm too chickenshit. Was that a beaky leer? All in all, it's a pretty carefree existence. It's not as if the buggers are contributing to the mortgage. That's what being "free range" is all about.

It's the weekend to go and reward your biological monsters for all the sacrifices they made. A pal of mine says his mom would point at his father and say, "I had to have sex with that man for you."

Think of all the cool things you could have done with the money you've spent on therapy over the years. Now that brought a tear to your eye, hey?

Cheers!

Al

6.) Quit smoking... but not before you've started.
Ja, ja! We all know the damn things'll kill you, so give them up. BUT!...
Unless you have known the illicit pleasure of that first drag ...
Unless you've heard the voice of Darth Vader, himself a pack-a-day man. Unless you've experienced the joy of trying to force your phlegm down the plug hole with the back end of your tooth brush, you'll never know how good it feels to stop.
You have to be a recovering addict in order to get the full value of the boost to your self-esteem when you go to a restaurant and tell the waiter, "NON-smoking section, please." Then smugly tuck into some irradiated, genetically modified, bird-flu casualty.

8.) Booze.
That's an order. Recent studies show that people are completely unwilling to give up the luxury of a "dop", so they commission recent studies to prove that a couple of drinks every day are actually good for you. The only thing they don't seem to agree on is exactly which types of plonk you're allowed to consume. My suggestion is: "Drink everything!" That'll increase the odds of you getting it right. Of course, if I'm wrong, we'll both be too pissed to care.

9.) Be part of a pack.
I never met a dog I didn't like. He's probably the only living creature you're likely to meet who is neither a comedian, nor a critic. He loves you. He would lay down his life for you. Which is pretty damn good considering the amount of alimony you pay to someone who is capable of much less. A wolf pack "starter pack" is available at the nearest SPCA. Apparently real men have them neutered, but I didn't have the balls.

10.) Sex and Sleep.
I know these two are essential. Your guess, as to how to get enough of either, is as good as mine. Remember, if you can't be good in bed at least be funny. And if you can smell leather it's best to be in a new car.

Folks, it takes years to perfect this kind of self abuse, so I suppose I should issue some kind of DON'T TRY THIS AT HOME EVER disclaimer here. I figure if you've taken any of this seriously, you need more help than these lifestyle tips could provide, so for caring, professional advice, turn to the horoscope page of your local newspaper.

2.) Exercise.There are many reasons for doing this. Health isn't one of them. Anyone who has ever beaten a nine year old at soccer in the park knows that the primary object of exercise is to feel good. Above all, stay away from runners. You've heard of "the loneliness of the long distance runner"? There's a reason for this. They're antisocial freaks. They run to make the voices stop. Go to the gym instead, meet someone and take her/him out for "STEP 3".

3.) Eat good food.Once you've actually revived your flagging metabolism with a bit of a sweat and some well founded sexual tension, (NOT towards the nine year old in the park!) You'll be able to scoff all sorts of lekker stuff that used to stick around your waist, but which are now necessary for your active lifestyle. Necessary!?! Dig it! In other words, you can eat like George Foreman... Hell, You can eat George Foreman if you feel like it.

4.) Laugh.Especially in traffic. It drives the other lemmings crazy. This is specially recommended if you're following a hearse. Laugh during arguments. It relieves you of the pressure of saying something clever. Laugh during confrontations. It's more effective than all the single- and multi-fingered rude signs put together. It's the ultimate expression of power.

5.) Avoid the Religious.These people are not your friends. They believe that this world is sadness and pain and long for death. It would be rude to discourage them. Shun them like joggers.

Note: I haven't said a word about masturbation. If you're too stupid to work this one out for yourself, you deserve to be unhealthy. More next time.

Getting in: One look at the layers of electric fencing and you know why Eskom's capacity is so stretched. The writing is on the wall in the form of contract notices at the boom-moat-crocodilepit-tanktrap-barredgate-thingy, cheerfully reminding you that you abandon all rights and assume plenty of responsibility when you enter. IF they let you enter. Perhaps a simple sign reading, "Criminals go away! Go and steal from the poor! (Like we do) would suffice.

The venue: Has a tank full of live lobster. At first I mistake it for still more security, but then I realise it's an indication of the class of the establishment. Everything is so-ho-oh fresh! I'm tempted to order a steak, but I already have a mortgage. I'm not really hungry, I just wanted to see of they kill the cattle at your table too.

The gig: Really nice people. No more or less twitchy than any other audience. They'd probably like South Africa if they ever moved back.

Getting out: A last queasy look at the lobster as I go. I would like to be a vegetarian, but DAMN it's hard! Veggies only! Soon. As soon as I quit masturbation. Then the drive past the squatter camp as the rain pounds down and flood waters rise again. The radio predicts more of the same tomorrow.

Ah, what am I moaning about? People have the right to live wherever they like! As long as they have the money. Change to a music station and Bob Dylan sings, "A hard rain's gonna fall."

(The hostess overseeing the chopping of the coleslaw.)
"Brendaaaa! You see what that man is doing to you people?"

"Yes, Madam."
(Brenda is of course an illegal immigrant and therefore works cheaper... with fewer days off. Her employer seems to be worried that she hasn't noticed the starvation in her home country and in fact swam the Limpopo on a whim.)

"He's been in power for too long, hasn't he?"

"Yes, Madam."

"That's the problem when they've come to power. They won't ever let go. They treat everybody like their slaves..."

BZZZZ!

Brendaaaa, there's the security buzzer! See who's at the door!"

"Yes, Madam."

"And don't forget to bring the washing in while you're there."

Meanwhile outside, at the coals, the inevitable rage against affirmative action. Us vs. Them. Over and over again. It reminded me of a handwritten sign in a pet shop window:

FOR SALE - Pedigreed Boerboel Pups. No hip dysplasia. Guaranteed Racist.

Now, I'm NOT the sparkliest glitter ball in the gay bar, but I'm born and raised in Africa for at least 4 generations, so I'm African. But, my skin is white, my forefathers came here for Europe, so I'm European-African. But their forefathers were overrun and well shagged by the hordes of Genghis Khan from Asia when he swept in from Asia, so I'm Asian-European-African. But, their forefathers crossed to Asia across the ancient continent of Gondwanaland from somewhere close to Roodepoort where I live now. So I'm African-Asian-European-African. The only thing I'm not, is Australian.

Therefore Australia MUST be our only true enemy. See? There's always a bright side. And so the braai conversation comes full circle. Groundhog Day starts again. Enjoy the cricket!

But is it funny when a Danish paper slaps a sizeable chunk of the world's most hair-trigger inhabitants in the face with a half defrosted pork chop?

They've published a series of cartoons lampooning Islam and reaction has grown with subsequent reprinting elsewhere. So far I've only seen one in the local Mail and Guardian. Don't know why this brave publication didn't print them all if they were going to print any. Maybe they think militants give you one free blasphemy, sort of like being a little bit pregnant or somewhat beheaded. But I don't think it quite works that way.

Thus, Denmark goes straight to the top of the great-Satan hit parade/list. The Danes?! When last did the Danes do something controversial? Personally, I think any nation that inflicts the hell of Lego on children has a serious tendency towards cruelty, so they definitely need close watching.

But these berserker newspapers haven't printed anything that hasn't been written/said a thousand times before, so why the fuss now? Can it really be true that a picture is worth a thousand words or at least the price of the petrol in a Molotov cocktail? And how is it that these pictures are suddenly the last straw that broke... (OOPS! Caught myself nearly indulging in an offensive cultural stereotype there!) What I meant to ask is, what in our secular, bacon munching, booze guzzling, Britney Spears' boobs ogling lifestyles DOESN'T affront Islam? Where are you personally going to draw the line to ensure your neighbour is happy and not lining you up in the cross-hairs of his Mercedes?

Because, in the streets, they can smell your fear.

As I said, when I was a fresh, idealistic stand-up, I once offended an audience member. He grabbed me later, outside the club and showed me his police I.D., assuring me that he could have me thrown in a cell for the night where I would be roundly and soundly sodomised. He said he knew I'd be buggered, because he'd bribe my cellmates with an arm of dagga to do so. (Sigh! Was I so ugly that caged animals had to be paid to molest me?)

I apologised. More accurately, I cringed like I'd been caught buying a Celine Dion album. Not because I meant it or thought he deserved it, but because I was as terrified as I'd ever been in my life. He won, because a death threat is a pretty effective heckle.

So what's the connection? Well, I guess my point is that it's all funny until it's your arse on the line. If I wanted to start a fight, I wouldn't have chosen to pick one with Muslim people using these cartoons; they obviously are insulting to the religious. But do the religious get to decide the consequences for the rest of us? No. because, if the people screaming for the massacre of cartoonists are right, then George W. and his anti-evolutionists are right. Then Pope Whatsisname, the HIV, and his condom banning buddies are right. Then threats and force and violence are right. Then a very real war between cultures really is inevitable.

Both sides are being obnoxious. Both should take some sincere steps ( peace making deeds not words) to make amends. But let's not pretend that drawing ink warrants drawing blood, because it doesn't.