Fun For The Hoe Generation

The greatest trick the hoe ever pulled was convincing us that she didn't have feelings. Most men have, at some point, made it off the bench and started for Team Save A Hoe. I would also like to venture a guess and say that most men lost their virginity to a hoe. Hoes are a part of life, they are the backbone to the moral fibre of society and somebody has to do it. Please note: In this piece, 'hoe' is synonymous with 'side chick'.

They usually start off very cool, almost like a male companion. Laughing at chauvinistic comments and getting involved in general bro talk. Men take this as "She wants the D", because more often than not, she does. She'll casually come up with an ideal proposition along the lines of fooling around with no strings attached. At this point, the man doesn't feel obligated to divulge any much information with regards to whatever relationship he might be having at the time, nor does he care for whatever relationship she might be in. Besides, most men know that nothing beats the warmth of your penis wrapped inside some vaginal walls. So you proceed to fucking like champions and enjoying the pleasures of a non-committal and unemotional relationship... then the man gets confused. This is primarily because his dick is hard 95% of the time he's with her, and the amount of blood in the male body can only run one head at a time. This carries on for a couple of weeks or months and the man may start to consider dating her. The problem is that he doesn't want to jeopardise the great head, solid vagina and non-existent pillow talk and she doesn't seem to even require a relationship.

This is until she sees the man in his mack stance, talking to another woman. Or until she finds out he has a girlfriend. This is when all the shit hits the fan where all hell has broken loose. She will badmouth your girlfriend, threaten to castrate, or set clothes on fire. The bi-polarity of hoes has always astounded me. For example, even after the less than amicable end to your extra-curricular dalliances, she will see you at the club, drunk, and attempt to have sex with you in the bathrooms. She'll do this right in front of the leopard printed shawty with the pedicured toes you were trying to win. Some hoes take it as far as conjuring up fake pregnancy scares in an attempt to trap the man, or get money out of him. This is a bold move and used as a last resort that could turn out very ugly, especially if she really is pregnant. This distinct lack of tact pushes the man further away and before you know it, all is forgiven and memories are kept. It goes without saying that this methodology is what makes her a certified hoe. It is the combination of not wanting a relationship while having casual sex, then acting like you did when it's over. Take away the latter and you have a girl that just enjoys having sex. Hoes love attention.

I don't have anything against hoes. Life would be boring without them, and probably longer. I wish we could celebrate them with some kind of Hoe Olympics where performance enhancing drugs are the norm. I would love to see who the Dance Hoestrong would be. What bothers me is the amount of emotional turmoil hoes withstand to continue hoeing. How much heartbreak can one take before they lose it completely? Maybe that explains why they're bi-polar. And it is for this reason I do not want a daughter. I would consider starting a new family if I saw my future daughter tweet "We outchea in VIP! Hoe vibes lol ;)".


Disclaimer: No hoes were hurt during this post.

Left For Dead

Sbu and I at the IG office in Greenpoint,

On Friday I went to an Instant Grass party. It was at this new place called The Industry on Harrington Street. I later remembered that it used to be a titty bar called "The Cage" where pregnant strippers were not uncommon.

My friend, Adam, and I started at Neighbourhood for a couple draughts and a catch up on THESE WHORES!! The establishment was more full than last night's moon, so we didn't stay much longer than the duration of imbibing a cursory draught and tequila shot.

When we rocked up at The Industry, it was pretty empty. There was a boxing ring around the DJ booth which kind of reminded me of Vinyl Digz of winter last year. I heard that this particular party was organised by Leneave, but I couldn't blame him for the mediocre attendance because it was still very early. Adam and I resolved that we would leave if Raiko's set didn't bring a vibe that would involve women losing their inhibitions, morals and the occasional braid. The problem was, during his set, Adam's pops texted him to inform him he was dropping furniture off at his place at around midnight. He said he would go home, charge my phone, then come back. He never came back. Mind you, he still owed me two rounds.

Adam and I at Pop Bottles last year.

There I was, left for dead with nowhere to go. Shafted like a Capetonian in Joburg, I was determined to attempt a 'Spread', like Ashton Kutcher. Then I saw Mila. Mila is short for Milagre. He's from Mozambique and chews honeys for fun. He advises me that there are two girls who take the D seriously enough to fear it. I just wanted to sleep, so I winged for him. The girl's names were Vuyo and Sandra, and after some carefully placed negative compliments (by Mila, of course), they offered to take us to their humble abode. They lived in Woodstock, filled with Woolworths products. We drank and smoked until night and day became an item. I was wearing one of my worst pair of boxers, so I had no intention of showing them to anybody. I woke up from my drunken stupor at 1pm on Saturday, not knowing were I was. Sandra and Mila were nowhere to be seen. I woke Vuyo up to let me out but she wasn't impressed. I'm not sure why because I'm a good person, but she had short blonde hair and I couldn't be associated with her for much longer in fear of what her boyfriend may be capable of. I've met some that have priors, so I'm not delusional. By that time I knew my girlfriend was hacked with me, so I left immediately. I asked some winos where I could find a public telephone (I gave my phone to Adam the night before) to call Jade. I found out that she was at the Old Biscuit Mill enjoying The Neighbour Goods Market so I met up with her there. I relayed the events of the previous night told only to find out that Adam had already told her the concocted cover up story. She was cool with it but not keen to go to Vinyl Digz, which her friends had launched her into attending. I didn't really care, I just wanted the hair of the dog that bit me.

I get to the rooftop and it's hotter than a mahfucker (still not sure what's that suppsed to mean. How is a person who fornicates with your maternal parent, hot?). I smoke a few joints with Sakhile and chill with Jade and her mates. We commandeer a couch under some gazebo thing. It was so hot I had to take off my black tee. Now, I have only just recently become accustomed to showing my torso in public. I'm not saying we should all go to a nude camp and see what happens, but I'm not against the idea. My psychosomatic illness came from having an outie bellybutton and a surgical scar around it, but I digress. Looking around the rooftop party I met some more good peoples in Roxy and Vim. I started receiving lingering glares from the crowd, but I attributed that solely to the bundles of oestrogen around me. The heat, the beer and blunts started catching up on me worse than some trifector that Satan probably places on his mantle piece at his crib. Jade and I ducked out of there before things got way too messy for our budget.

On Sunday I woke up feeling more tender than a recently gangbanged vagina. Lying in the foetal position in bed, my girlfriend baked what would later be some delicious mini-Oreo cheesecakes. What a sport. Good weekend.

- Siyabawisa or @SeeYay for short. 

My Handle

I attended Rodebosch Boys' for eleven years.

Okay, let's double back. Having spent the first seven years of my life eMthatha, I knew next to nothing about isilungu. I had my first crush in what we used to call Sub A at Umtata International School. She was a coloured girl in my class, and one day I arrived at school and my teacher was unconscious with blood all over her face, outside the classroom entrance. Being the Jaleel White (of the 90s) of awkward situations, I searched for my crush. I found her sitting on the floor, crying for her teacher in distress. I'll never forget what it felt like to hold and console her. PAUSE.

The next year we moved to Rondebosch and I was associated with white kids until about Grade 9. By that time the black kids in the school became wary of my delinquent behaviour and I felt ordained when they took me under their wing. And no, it wasn’t to reform me. As much as I felt like I was only there for these okes’ amusement, I truly felt the friendship when one of my mates started calling me 'CA'. I heard this as more of a ‘Siya’ on some Colonial French tip. Either way, I ran with it further than Bruce Fordyce. Maybe even to a point where I was inceptioned into studying chartered accountancy. Nah, that's just the weed talking.

- CA

PS: Oh yeah, my Sub A teacher suffered her head injury by walking into the face brick wall next to the doorway, on her way into class. Drugs are bad, kids. 

So Far And Before

"Compleemants of teh seizures" - Me (31 December 2012, Midnight). To all those who sent their season's greetings via SMS with perfect grammar and spelling, I'm so sorry. You lot should learn to live a little. Ironically enough, I tried this last year, and as most Bafana Bafana fans don't know: You win some, you lose some.

Things only really started falling apart towards the end of last year when I lost my job. There are few things I hate more than dwelling in the past and wallowing in self-pity, so I'm not going to go in to detail as to how my vocational contract was ended prematurely.

All in all, however, 2012 was a memorable year. Partially because for most of the year, a very small part of me was hoping it would all end on the 21st of December, as predicted by the extinct Mayan people. I drank, I loved, I lived. I learned a lot about gin and tonic, managing relationships and being nice to others. I am happy, in a stable relationship and still loved by my parents. This all may sound like fun, but through all this I also hurt, and learnt, the hard way.

I'm not the type to blow his own horn, so I won't. I am an advocate of self-deprecation, so I laugh at myself as often as possible to prevent others from procuring as much joy from my dismay. During the embryonic stages of 2012 it soon became apparent to me that I was somehow more appealing to others than I have ever been (men and women). I'm not exactly sure if it was because I had a new found confidence in myself but something was ripe in the state of Denmark (Hamlet). I had graduated in BCom Finance at UWC the year before, and I was eager to engage with people that wear jeans that fit and mouths that were worth opening. Too eager. A couple of broken hearts later and almost losing a close friendship (which I'm still trying to fix), it hit me like a "Missed My Flight" from Abantu at 2 in the morning. You know, when couples are already on second base right next to the bouncer sitting on the barstool outside? I knew I needed to grow even more worldly than just the cosmopolitan confines of Cape Town. I met many new people from all walks of life: Those that are not from South Africa, gays, lesbians, transgenders and some big booty hoes.

I was living on my own, on my own account, for the second time in my life. And the rockstar lifestyle dwindled along with the wages every month. I look back at it now, and I honestly do not regret a single moment of it. A lot of people that know me, or think they know me, would be forgiven for thinking that I was some kind of sex-crazed alcoholic. At some point, maybe I was, but there are so many different aspects of my personality. I am terrible in my mother tongue (no incest), good with maths and English, and my mind rarely sleeps. A good friend told me that I drink so it can sleep, to which I hmmmm'd very introspectively. So I carried on living outside of my means and out of my comfort zone and realised that what I want in life won't be attained while I'm blacked out, or maybe I black out because I'm afraid of what I'll attain if I don't. Petty excuses, I know. One thing I haven't lost is my need to throw in a crumpled piece of toilet paper in the bowl before I defecate to prevent any arterial spray during any audible log droppings. Okay, time for a new paragraph.

Twitter had a huge role to play in terms of my relationships, viewing the world how others perceive it, twerking and a whole host of other abominable realisms. People are not inherently on Earth for everyone else's benefit. They generally don't care unless it involves them. And they often find amusement and joy in the failure of others. But I'm not here to give Twitter a bad rap. During the many times I was painting the town red, people would approach me asking if I was 'SeeYay' or 'Sunny's brother' (Sunny is my brother). By then they had already had a decent grasp of what kind of person I was based on my tweets, and it was thus easy to engage with them, if I wasn't on the floor begging it to stop spinning. This was around the same time I decided that Twitter was indeed real and I would use it to my advantage. And by my advantage I mean get women. It worked, but it was meaningless. I was never raised to be that person, and I never will be.

It has come to my attention that I want to become a writer and need to not mislead people with 140 character sensationalist tweets, but rather get a full view of who I am. This is what I think is the best platform to showcase this talent and kill two birds with one bone (yes, this is a threesome reference, but not really). So here I am, giving in to the whims of blogging for the betterment of my life. I really don't subscribe to the notion of IDGAF. Everyone cares, and without caring all we have is anarchy and unkempt toenails. Like my early days on Twitter, I have no idea how this works but one thing I do love is learning. And with that I complete my first blog post.

- Siya Mawisa or @SeeYay for short.