Category Archives: THE SERMON
Dave Ramorulane | The Sermon
‘Homo Greeditus’ specie are fat, they wear pointy shoes made from the skins of endangered animals and they wear accessories made from the bones of dead orphans.
Their garages are a display of automotive pornography and the architectural insanity that is their houses host alcohol-fuelled parties where sushi is eaten off the bodies of naked nymphs.
Their offsprings are no better, during school breaks, they snort coke off the dashboards of their expensive Mini Coopers.
Discovered in the urban jungles of the Highveld in 1994, this specie has now multiplied so quickly it is found virtually in every part of the southern most tip of Africa.
Homo Greeditus is one of the living species in the Homo Genus, the other being the Homo Sapiens. Anatomically there is no difference between Homo Sapiens and Homo Greeditus, although some observations have been made by social researchers about Homo Greeditus being “abnormally fat, with deep-set devilish eyes.”
The word Homo means “man” and Greeditus is an ancient Shangaan word meaning “selfish”. In short, Homo Greeditus means a “Greedy Man.”
Homo Greeditus feed on tenders, the poor and single malt whiskey. During the Winter Season, when tenders are scares, they prefer blue cheese and Moet.
Distribution & Habitat
They are mostly found in the leafy suburbs of Gauteng, and some golf estates around South Africa. The species is fairly “new”, first discovered in 1994, so there is still a lot of work to be done by Social Science to understand this specie, also known as aMa-BEE #SMH.
Deacon Dave | The Sermon
Let us be honest – reality television is crap. But we love it. In many ways, it is like an accident scene: no matter how terrible the scene is, you just cannot help but watch.
Unlike other forms of television, reality television gives us an opportunity to watch people who look like ourselves – yes, we all have a bit of Jerry Springer in us.
The Biggest Loser show reminds us that we are not the only ones who are fat and Idols provides us with the sort of entertainment previously reserved for talent scouts. And then there’s Big Brother – who comes up with these things?
I came across Idols while having my late breakfast last Saturday. “Strumming my pain with his fingers” some talentless soul from Durban, with a gold tooth nogal, began singing. They always have gold teeth; I guess it’s a Durban thing.
“Holy cow!” I thought to meself, while buttering both sides of my toast, “This is the best entertainment since witnessing tarantula-eating contestants on Fear Factor!”
“Hmmm,” said Gareth Cliff, the chief narcissist and one of the three judges employed to tell contestants what their mothers would not tell them, “Honey, you can’t sing.”
“Being a pop star is not only about singing,” interjected another judge, Unathi Msengana, with a straight face, “You need to be hip and happening and, you know, like have that swag.” Which is a polite way of saying that you can be a pop star even if you’re fat and your clothes are knitted by your grandmother!
Singing is secondary, it seems.
All the while Randal, the nastiest judge of them all is quiet, is trying very hard to pull out something terrible to say from the unknown territory of his deep thoughts. In the end he doesn’t say anything, he just shakes his head and the poor contestant got the message.
The contestant was reduced to a tearful, quivering meatbag for the entertainment of the masses; and me. Outside, a brief interview is held with the contestant. “Where is it,” enquired Proverb enthusiastically, referring to the ticket contestants get to advance to the next round, “My dreams are shattered” said the contestant. Screaming like a hyena giving birth, “I wanted this, like so bad. Boohoo!”
By then I was laughing so hard I had bits of brains coming out of my ears. Who said reality television is boring? Kwaaaa…
Deacon Dave | The Sermon
I love my village , Ngobi, the people are truly rural. They wear red jackets, worn out shoes and utter words indistinctly as they wonder through the village going on about their daily business – real simpletons!
Everyone here minds their own business. The birds never sing out of tune and the local watering hole always has a steady supply of warm Castle quarts.
The ladies are not exactly oil paintings but hey, you learn to make do with what you have. “Goebbels!” said I, in a strongly worded electronic thingamabob, “I need a few days from this hell hole. Remember during one of your torturous PowerPoint sessions you mentioned things like holiday, de-stressing and un-winding? I think I want to take your advice.”
Now Goebbels is not a nice guy. He is almost permanently sh*t-faced and he’s got a face that resembles that of a pitbull chewing a wasp. His job, it seems, is to make lives of mere mortals like myself miserable. His favourite pastime is to walk around our open plan office barking obscenities. He calls it “Management.”
In his response the sh*tface said, “If you’re not here by Monday next week, don’t bother coming back,” using capital letters. So I left for my village on a Summery Sunday afternoon to look for peace in the vastness of the universe that is my village. What a sight!
The birds were doing an angry rendition of Simon and Garfunkel and the cows were farting tulips.
“People writing songs that voices never share and no one dared disturb the sound of silence,” the birds continued with their rendition, as I trotted along a sandy footpath leading to my straw-roofed house.
“Beep, beep,” goes my expensive Blackberry. You must know, the Deacon does not like expensive things but he has to have just so he stays in reach of Goebbels. Goebbels managed to find me using an electronic-thingamajig. The world is truly small.
“Dear Deacon,” he began rather uncharacteristically, “remember if you’re not here by Monday, don’t bother coming back!” and with that one liner, Goebbels managed to ruin my otherwise serene village escapade. This twat, God-forbid, one day is one day!