Vodacan’t: The Ball-Numbing Black Hole of Vodacom Customer Service

So, I’ll be the first to admit that I sit on the bottom rung when it comes to mobile gadgetry. Shiny things entice me, but my need to reaffirm my existence and temporarily stave off those pesky thanatic impulses via the wanton purchases of things that go ‘beep’ is constantly at odds with my more basic and all-together more irritating need for constant sustenance. And since bread is so expensive these days, my desire for upper echelon mobile devices is repeatedly snubbed in favour of a yummy pint at Rafiki’s and maybe some chips.

I will freely admit that I am at the mercy of my Vodacom contract. If it ain’t free, it ain’t mine. To illustrate my point, I give you this: in the world of iPhones, BlackBerrys and Android, I am currently Tweeting my way across the Information Super highway on a Nokia Navigator.

Justin Bieber will Destroy You, and Probably Me Too

Ok, so I came across this article a little late, but the terrifying implications are in no way lessened by the passage of a few days.

The hammer has been struck, the herald has tweeted, the sacrificial emo virgin has been set alight atop Island Def Jam studios.

The Biebette army has cast its first stone.

It looked like this

So, boring story short, Miss Kevin Kristopik hacked into the Twitter account of Miss Bieber’s super bestest friend; let’s call him Miss Susie Sparklepants. My guess is that Miss Kristopik was just so SOOP XcItED 2 be lyk LOLZing wit USHA that she lost all her boy juices and face-planted her keyboard, which, by pure coincidence, is exactly how anyone even vaguely related to the Biebster enters their personal password.

Platypus 'Duos'

What are the chances? A day after I post my epic ode to the Platypus and I stumble upon the most irrefutable proof of their superiority, published by an organization only slightly less reputable than myself.

As it turns out, the platypus has the capacity for both blood curdling violence and merciful healing.

Yea, for with his webbed, venomous paw doth he both giveth and taketh away.

“Amen, bitches.”

It seems that the heart-stopping awesomeness of the platypus extends not just to its ability to singlehandedly bring the human race crumbling down to a jabbering mass of structureless, gurgling amoeboids, but to the unique cells and particles that make up its other-worldly body. To be more specific, its ‘platypus proteins’.

F*ck You, I'm a Platypus!

Let me begin again, in a fashion that I am becoming quite comfortable with, by asking a rhetorical question: how can I fully and successfully relate to you the sheer, nut-blasting awesomeness of that most radical of monotremes, that patch-quilt of insanity and super powers, the mother-fucking platypus?!

If the animal kingdom was the X-Men, then the platypus would be Wolverine. If Australia was the DC universe, he’d be Batman. If nature was a bunch of kids playing cops and robbers in the 30s, he’d be the little dickhead claiming he’s wrapped in a force field, waving around an imaginary laser-gun and screaming, “You can’t kill me!”

The platypus’s physical and biological makeup makes God look like Dr Frankenstein if Dr Frankenstein had played too many video games as a kid – or that, conversely, while under a sudden, unexpected and completely misguided desire to bond (an affliction that has been known to strike many a father without warning) God tossed a few DIY packs Old Nick’s way, chiming; “Come on, son. Let’s see if you and the old man don’t share a keen interest in taxidermy.”