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True Irony: Brainwashing for the Right Reason

SOPA BAS SOPA BAD SOPA PIPA BAD PIPA BAD PIPA BAD AGAINST SOPA AGAINST PIPA.

Is it working yet?

Forget Irony, This Post is About Pride

Makaron displays the Boschendal Style Award

Congratulations to the Eat Out Award Winners

And a very big congratulations to Makaron Restaurant, winner of the Boschendal Style Award, announcing us as quite literally having the most beautiful restaurant in the country! I’m so proud to be a part of the Majeka House team!

True Irony Interacts With Coffee

WEEEELL, did I not have the best day ever on Monday! And I’m being sarcastic.

To clarify or perhaps begin, I love coffee. Good coffee is manna from heaven, and so much more. And even plastic-y instant gets me excited if I haven’t had caffiene in a while (read, more than eight hours).

So on Monday, I had to be at work at 6.30am and I dragged myself out of bed at 5.30am, moaning a little because, you know, even though it’s summer in this corner of the world, we’ve yet to have a full week of actual sun and warmth. And even though I’m up so damn early I don’t have coffee at home but rather at work, as I like to get there a little earlier just in case, and if there’s no case then I can finish waking up and sometimes also applying make-up and all that jazz, before the other people start come in.

I arrived at work at about 6.05am, even early for me. I made myself a mug of delicious plastic coffee and put it on the shelf of my desk reserved for my computer tower, a small safe, a bunch of wires and sometimes my knees. I settled, started up my computer, and promptly knocked over my untouched caffienated beverage.

Dear reader, it went errrrrrrrrrrrrrrrverywhere. Under the computer, under the safe, down the side of the desk, and onto the floor. I spent a good half hour mopping up, moving the PC, wiping it down, moving the safe, wiping it down – you get the idea. And instant coffee that is dried with the heat of the computer smells very gross.

I reach 1pm with little incident, until I return from my lunch break with another full cup.

A cup I actually finished

I know what you’re thinking.

No, I actually drank this one.

Til about it was about half.

I’m still not reeeeealllllly sure what happened, but I did try to catch it, in the hopes that I could get it upright again before it messed. Which totally explains why instead of flooding under the computer again, 200ml of (by now) cold coffee landed in my shoes.

Yurk.

True Irony is Such a Guy of a Figure

Did you know that Guy Fawkes is where the use of the word “guy” is from? Guy became used as an oddly dressed and misshapen person and eventually was adapted to its modern use. (Incidentally, “girl” used to refer to a young person of either sex.)

 

Guy Fawkes is painted as a hero today. He is anti-establishment. He is fighting for a cause. He’s – in a word – cool. You only have to look at appearances in modern literature and media. The popular (and a personal favourite) movie V for Vendetta, for example. 

 

I like this. Not just because I feel that the world would be a lot better off if most of our resources weren’t controlled by 1%. Not just because it’s an awesome movie and the 1812 by Tchaikovsky is one of my favouritist pieces of music. But Guy Fawkes is essentially a 15th century version of the Al Qaeda, and no one gives a damn. I guess the trick is to fail at being bad.

 

It’s really kind of funny.

 

Osama, you were just too good at what you did.

True Irony is Mythical Royalty

Goddammit Arthur Pendragon. Can’t you just have one standard myth to your name, and be done?

You’d really make my life sooo much simpler.

True Irony is South African Government

Sooooo, the brilliant leaders have brought out, for the nth time, their Secrecy Bill, in the hopes that it’ll get passed and the citizens will be able to keep their noses out of their not-supposed-to-be-private business. It is indeed, as many are saying, a step backwards.

Let’s just forget for one tiny second that we are facing this guy and that South Africans, as people who end up paying for his absurd luxuries, have a real right to ask, just like the FNB ads, “Where does that come from?”

Let’s just forget about that example of abuse and corruption, shall we – it’ll just take a few minutes to sweep it under the carpet…

The government should be accountable for everything that they say and do and spend. Tax money goes towards (for example) funding roadworks. Now, if they shelled out 50g for fixing something, and it could have cost them 20g if they chose a company not owned by a family member… isn’t that something the people should be aware of? If a minister choses to use his or her government funded car to drive from Cape Town to Hermanus for a family weekend, isn’t that a form of theft? Taxpayers’ money going towards their private life?

Now, let’s bring the man with the house back into the equation. If he’s somehow getting his grubby little hands on millions of rands that he can’t explain, I do believe we all have a right to know.

Thank god for these people.

True Irony is Getting Married

YUP.

It’s actually been in the open for a week now, but I am getting married at the end of next year. Seems far away but I need time to plan, and I know it’ll go too quickly.

OMIGOSH EXCITEMENT.

True Irony is Fingers, Toes and Cold Weather

I have something called Raynaud’s Syndrome (or Phenomenon), which frankly is a pain in the butt. Or rather, fingers and toes.

Essentially if I get upset, cold, or experience a sudden temperature change in either direction, the blood vessels in my fingers and toes just shut down.

I’m incredibly lucky, because my attacks are relatively mild and at this point in my life more of an irritatant and minor discomfort than dangerous. You can see in the picture, as well as in the link, what a severe attack can look like, and I have never had any so severe. Even so, it’s incredibly frustrating, especially round bathtime.

I can’t put my foot into water that’s hotter than about 30 degrees, but my fingers doth protest too much if the water is much colder than 35.

Argh.

True Irony is Barefaced Idiocy

I don’t care who knows it, I think the majority of people online are stupid. Either stupid, or being online actually lowers their IQ somehow. Because instead of learning and using the internet for awesomeness, they will somehow gravitate towards the most useless piece of information, the most offensive thought patterns, and the biggest time-wasting articles and memes I have ever come across.

The latest Facebook meme – SPOILER ALERT, if you actually care about this pointless, gender-war-provoking (did I say pointless) spate of posts – is apparently supposed to raise awareness for breast cancer.

Firstly, I do agree that awareness needs to be raised. Knowing at least four people who have had breast cancer helps ensure that I (personally) am totally aware, thank you, but I do understand that there are many who aren’t.

BUT.

Secondly, how is keeping the meaning of your meme (hah) a secret supposed to raise anything other than annoyance and possibly someone’s blood pressure?

But most importantly:

How on earth does a post which states “I’m six weeks and craving smarties” contribute to breast cancer ANYTHING? A fake pregnancy and fake cravings on the profile of a fifteen year old? Your birthday in symbols?

Let me put it like this.

I’ve spent time contributing to research done on several diseases friends and family members have suffered from. I’ve donated money, I’ve been in debates… Hell, nevermind diseases, let’s branch it out to many other beliefs I uphold.

People give blankets to the homeless, risk their lives treating epidemics, their reputations supporting certain minorities…

And you think that your Facebook status is going to make a difference?

OMG! My cousin’s boyfriend’s sister’s mum is five weeks and craves pickles!

I’ve got to go get a mammogram!

True Irony is Public Transport

I long to live in a country or town where reliable public transport is a reality. As someone who (continually) fails her license tests, I would really love being able to step outside and hail a cab. Not even a “taxi”, which in South Africa has decidedly… different… connotations when compared to their counterparts almost anywhere else.

I would especially love reliable public transport at five in the afternoon, when I’ve worked almost an hour and a half overtime and I wait outside for the contracted guy, who takes staff in and out, and he’s late.

And not just late but late enough so that I leave, fed up and on foot, and I only come across him half way home and half an hour later, after my boyfriend has already phoned, concerned, and made arrangements for me to be picked up by our flatmate.

And I get into my flatmate’s car and he laughs and says, “As I left home to pick you up, the song And I Will Walk 500 Miles stayed playing.”

Somedays, I hate irony.

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