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what is trouble? Well, Albert and I will discuss this in the 2nd issue, because, I said so. Albert’s going to write the next one.

This would not have been possible without the brilliant dirty mind of Albert van Zyl. Thank you to the contributors, who all gave us their material, for FREE. Anastasya, for her amazing art and illustrations. Gabi and Dave from ESP, thanks for letting me burn your parking lot so I could shoot my cover. Kelly, Skinz, Kat, Zeno, Mikey, Ryan, Jacque(I didnt know you were in Running With Scissors!), Jade and Grethe, are awesome. Why Rian van Heerden.... I first fell in love with him when he was still part of Tuks FM, and he had a rooftop party on Menlyn Shopping Centre(featuring Sarongas still! 2001!) and he went on stage and announced that the only we could only get away with this mad party, cus he has the chief of police in his VIP room, and I thought, “I like this guy:)”. Thanks for working with two kids on a project you know nothing about, and the entertaining facebook status updates. Enjoy. Paul Clark.

p.s. trouble is young, but will grow strong. We’ve already planned half of issue 2. Subscribe.


for letters(incl. hatemail), suggestions, comments, contributions, anonymous cheque deposits and lawyers letters email us at....

Adding gum to my shoes before I set off to the mall Faraway. is a delicate procedure, later on I wind up at a festival We are currently full to capacity in my chalky that makes me feel safe yet I am unaccompanied. indigo Volkswagen retro kombi ready to attend the tic usias enth Unexpectedly I am being run after by three festival once again, I’m most likely an hour or so men with metal poles and I find myself on the run as away from catching up to their plane of inebriation cars, on though my existence depended on it…leaping although indecisive as to whether I’m keen to lose ed offer g bein time in bringing traffic to a standstill and myself or fearful for my life and my reputation. I a lift by a female and her son…”just drive!” I utter catch a peek to the driver’s seat to see an old school a or e tmar wheezing, sensing as though I’m in a nigh friend messily mumbling and trying to start up the in motion picture. The woman and her spawn are not car, he looks back at me and beams one of those . tions the least apprehensive, they don’t even ask ques smiles one does when you know them so well that what een betw ed Meanwhile I am awkwardly press your gut vomits backwards and your core starts possibly wasn’t the tightest backseat I have ever been pondering the worst case scenarios. I jump out you you, k “than in, not even able to cry out a despaired through the sliding door while loudly announcing saved my life!” “I’m driving, fuck this shit!” Standing speaking to this I get to my home, well the house I exist in, in Justin is difficult and he repeatedly reassures me that particular vision and I decide to take a bath. The tiles he’s okay…his smile is wider than the Fish River are a sour pink and I stretch out almost horizontal with Canyon and his stability would make Bambi look wet the of out just the section of my bony shoulders like a Rock star. They take off laughing leaving me breathing steadily and feeling peaceful yet again. in the street feeling like I’m the kakkest person on and d Three Gonubie acquaintances blast in intoxicate the planet and my conversation is as interesting as generously take over the undersized area with just sitting in an exam room with another 2 hours to go. sufficient gap for them to stand up let alone drop I turned to face the house. It was an uncertain and ling down drunk. I cover myself gigg and confusing hallucination between a asking what on earth they think they’re snake and a sort of pit bull that were both doing but not feeling too abashed as disrupting a small defenceless dark haired we are brotherly close and they carry girl. She seemed more or less drugged by on as if I were part of there saga. The the power of a canine/reptile. She was in a glass in are them of next instant all three room coiled up so as to try and defend her self the tub, I’m still tremendously knowing very well that she couldn’t, no matter are they bemused and how hard she tried. She was completely and utterly contentedly in infant against two times two fangs and poison. The canine was being enticed by a man to keep at the frail innocence. The cobra was defending itself from her delayed unsteady movements. Her attempts at getting up with each strike and every mauling caused her to collapse in a pile of humiliation and disadvantage. She was dedicated to damage.



title: the kids playground game that never made it artist: dirty floor aka paul clark


Albert: You are one of South Africa’s most renowned golfers. Why golf and not rollerblading? Rian: I have always been attracted to smaller balls. It is always more difficult to fit big balls into a hole. Rollerblading used to be fun also, although the blades left a few unpleasant scars. Albert: Do you collect anything weird? Like marbles or comic books... Rian: Comic books. Especially the early Batman ones from the 80’s. Albert: My friend was once on crack and then he said that South Africa is the closest you will ever get to hell on earth. Do you agree, or do you think he was on crack or something? Rian: It’s probably the crack…or his lack of visits to the Sudan. Albert: What is the weirdest (nonsexual) experience you ever had with a non-fan? Rian: I was called a baboon once and then spent weeks trying to find the fellow again, to present him with a lovely book all about baboons. Signed by me of course. I became quite a baboon expert in the process. Albert: Do you think that the “typical Afrikaner” with his blue Hilux (sic) bakkie and rooi rokkie will ever accept gays in this country? Rian: Some of them are gay themselves. Statistics and experience have taught us that. So in public probably not…but ooooo in private… Albert: How does it feel to be punched in the face? (Note that this is my first “how does it feel” question.) Rian: I haven’t been punched in the face but I have been slapped a few times. I quite like it on occasion. Albert: I did my research pretty well and know you are/ were a presenter at OFM. I used “were” because (please don’t be offended) I know you don’t last long at a station. What is the longest you have ever worked at a radio station? Rian: I think it was Tuks FM. I worked there for about four years. Mostly because I was the station manager and couldn’t fire myself. Albert: According to Facebook you are addicted to root canals. Fact or myth? Rian: I received help for this addiction thank you very much. I feel better now…although I do miss the Novocain. Albert: What are you addicted to on Facebook? (Masturbation does not count) Rian: Poking people. Albert: Why is it that I never see you on my Facebook chat?

Rian: I am with you in thought. And I do hate debates…so just stay out of them. Albert: You have reached a lot of fame during your Tuks DJ days. Why do you think people got offended by your “controversial statements”? Rian: People will always be offended by the truth. I have made it my mission to always try to say exactly what I think. Albert: Did you have a happy childhood? Rian: There were happy times and there were sad times. Typical South African story thus! Albert: I used to go to Odds (in Brooklyn mall) a lot. Do you remember that you once said “Hi” to me? And what happened to the popular night club? Rian: I tried to say “Hi” to everybody buying drinks! I sold Odds because it became too hectic to run. My lifestyle was also too rock n’ roll. But mostly, I proved my point… everybody said it cannot be done. Albert: What does your orgasm face look like? Rian: I have no idea….maybe it’s time to invest in that mirror on the ceiling.. Albert: If you could have sex with anyone, who would it be and why? Rian: Probably anyone in the Bel Ami cast. They’re probably as close as you can get to the perfect male form. Afterwards though, I’ll probably get bored. Albert: This is a question on behalf of the tourists: What is the most conservative South Africans you have ever encountered? And where can we find them? Rian: You will be surprised. Some of the most conservative people I have met are English and live in Houghton. These are the people that were furious when I used the word “crap” on 702. Albert: Your picture on is pretty... handsome... What will it cost me to have the famous Rian van Heerden to MC at my wedding? Rian: Hey…phone me…I’ll make you a good deal! I’ll even throw in a dozen jam tertjies if you book early. Albert: Last question. Please be honest on this one: Have you ever seen a UFO? Rian: No…but I think I saw a ghost once...

Albert: What is the longest you have ever worked at a radio station? Rian: I think it was Tuks FM. I worked there for about four years. Mostly because I was the station manager and couldn’t fire myself.

Catch Rian on “RIAN” Thursday nights on KYKnet. Rian Presents “Mambo Jumbo” weekdays on OFM, 3pm-6pm.


I have never really considered myself to be the religious kind. Being somewhat of an intellectual and an avid reader who has the tendency to freethinker dangerously, I find it really hard to get into religion when I am always confronted with my own personal axiom: “Is religion not that awkward feeling you get when someone puts his or her finger up your anus and you start contemplating whether you should go down on that person or not?” As an Atheist by intellect, an Agnostic on file and a Jew by heritage, I often refer to myself as a “freelance religious person” when in the company of those who don’t practise a religion (or a lack of it for that matter) that starts with “A”. Now the great thing about freelancing in religion is that it allows you to infiltrate certain states of mind in order to affiliate with other human beings without perplexing them. This can be incredibly useful when picking up transsexual females or trying to apply for something like a home loan. The whole concept of freelancing in religion is of greater significance to me in the fact that you are not bound by contract, meaning that it is not expected of you to, say for example, attend certain ceremonies, like Christmas or Freedom Day, yet certain “unorthodox” behaviour is justified in the eyes of others. Unfortunately, being a “freelance religious person” has its drawbacks. Christmas dinners are dull and you look kind of stupid when you don’t know the words to folk songs such as “Silent Night”. Another major drawback is that co-workers who live with their heads high in the sky will ask you to join them Wednesday mornings as they descent on the boardroom to hold hands and pray for something to safe them as they hit an insecurity alert. It’s in moments like that that you wish you didn’t answer “Yes” when asked the previous day by an abnormally enthusiastic, closet homosexual, wonder employee: “Are you a Christian, Albert?” Now excluding a colonoscopy, there is always a bright side to everything in life. The longer these prayer sessions last, the harder the directors kick the boardroom door open as they need to be prompt for their mid-week progress meetings. Have you ever seen a rapid wolf descend on a herd of sheep…? I have, and it makes me smirk. Now my inability to fall to my knees and clap my hands while I parrot-talk some kind of tedious rhyme can best be described as a man dressed up as a donkey, being involved in a date rape incident, and being on

the receiving end. The man in the donkey suit finds it enjoyable and problematic at the same time, but eventually he mumbles to himself, “If self-deceit is as gay as the day is long, I am not wearing that costume again.” But you know what, I am 99% certain that my upbringing could not possibly have contributed to my lack of believe, as I was told from a very young age that only old people die. If I look at my inability to believe in a deity, I think it is rather a blessing that was provided to me by either (a) The god I don’t believe in, or (b) My lack of imagination to take something that doesn’t exist and making it disappear, then believing that it does exist. Now I said that I am 99% sure that my Atheism is not a result of my upbringing. But 1% of my upbringing did contribute to the controversial man I am today. I remember that when I was a little kid I reached a certain adolescence phase in which I actually believed that I was MacGyver. I had the hairstyle and the whole kit; family and friends even called me Albert MacGyver. That, for me, was a true religious experience as I found my true self, if only for a year or two. It was around that time that I saw how my parents detested the church, but still had the will of heart to drop me and my sister off for church and Sunday school every week. As I stood there as a confused and scared nine-year-old, waving my parents goodbye with my little sister firmly holding my hand, I wondered why they gave me a can of Doom, a toy dinosaur and a 30-centimetre piece of string. I never knew what to do with the toy dinosaur, so I kept it away in my memory box for future use. The piece of string and Doom I used when I was 11-years-old. God, I would never forget that day because it was the first time I touched another man’s testicles. This just happened to be the nuts of my Sunday school teacher, Mr Tom Smith. Now he was like a father figure to me and he had been my Sunday school teacher since I was in grade one. Now the incident in which I saw his balls was during a Sunday school session and we had the usual routine of dropping our pants and sitting in a circle. Now usually Mr Smith would stand naked in the middle of the circle and as we closed our eyes and prayed, he would go around and give each boy a tender kiss on the penis tip.


Now the rule was that no peeping was allowed and if we would tell our parents, we would go to hell. I never really found this weird, because our neighbours’ 14-year-old daughter, Melissa Roelofse, used to do the same to me while we watched cartoons behind closed doors. She used to call it “Intense cleaning of what a hot bath, soap and our maid can’t clean” and she said if I would tell my parents, she was going to bite it off ( which was just as bad as going to hell). Years later I would learn that what she done to me was known as a blowjob and that Mr Smith…he wasn’t a bad guy; he just liked kissing young boys’ penises. But hey, don’t we all like doing that? It’s just too bad that the police and church officials though otherwise about him. They found him lying naked on the floor in the middle of a circle of boys displaying their erect penises. The poor guy was in tremendous agony and he smelled like odourless Doom, with one end of a piece of string tied around his nuts and the other one around his foot.

After a complete investigation, the police found that Tom Smith’s real name was actually Frederick Kleinnetotten, the leader of the pre-neo-Naziscientology and rightwing Scandinavian collaboration cult, Die Hintertür zu Jesus. It also turned out that what the other 12 boys and I learned from Frederick Kleinnetotten, formerly-known as Mr Smith, in the last four years was not the prescribed NG Church’s curriculum, but rather that of the Die Hintertür zu Jesus cult. Immediately it became clear to my parents why I had no conscience and the ability to fluently speak a mixture of Japanese and Swedish, known as German. It was after the exposure of Frederik Kleinnetotten that I realised that I was fucked in terms of ever being able to practise any other religion again. For four years I have been a dedicated follower of what I thought was Christianity, but which turned out to be a religion/cult in which perversion and bestiality was the essence of spiritual healing and self-enrichment.

Just as Germans can’t be trusted with trains and normality, the kids in my Sunday school class were also not to be trusted as they all pointed the finger at me. Later on when I spilled the beans to the priest, the police and my stunned parents, I said that a man that could talk so much shit as Mr Smith would most certainly be crazy enough to bite my little dick off; that was my reason for quickly slipping the string around Mr Smith’s nuts and foot with great speed and stealth, and when he moved on to kiss the next boy’s penis…bang! Now I never got into trouble for that as criminal charges were laid against the Sunday school teacher and I was dubbed a local hero for exposing “The sick perversion of the Christian race”. My parents even swore to never drop me off at Sunday school again as they feared I might contract HIV/AIDS, or the Black Man’s Disease as it was known back in those days.

At the age of 11, my mind was fucked and so was my belief. For most of my teens and young adult life I was a dedicate Atheist who criticised Christianity, not because I hated it or despised it, just because I didn’t belief in its practise and through my criticism, other people could make up their own minds. It wasn’t until the age of 25 when I finally mastered the art of freelancing in religion. After coming out of too many failed relationships due to “irreconcilable differences” (usually referring to my Atheism), I used freelance religion to chat up women and make them belief that I believed in whatever they believed in. I joined a local cell group who gathered on Mondays and Thursdays for prayer sessions and Bible studies. It was during this that I met the love of my life, Karlien Kleinnetotten. Karlien was a widow whose husband committed suicide in prison. She was also 20 years my senior. She introduced me to respecting others’ religion and the famous sex-move, the Tarpit, which she kind of forced me to perform on her. The Tarpit wa the final piece of the puzzle of my life. As Karlien used to lay there on her back with my cum all over her boobs and a bit of my shit over her navel, I finally realised why I kept that toy dinosaur my parents gave me 16 years ago.



who we loved in ears this month, with no limit on time, date or year...

Mike Politis (MPI) Album: Dub Side of the Moon Artist: Easystar Allstars

Zeno Petersen Album: This Is War Artist: 30 Seconds to Mars

Dave Skinz Album: Toolroom Knights Artist: Funkagenda

Anastasya Eliseeva Album: Hang a flag in a window Artist: David Rovics

Kelly NO Album: Cities Artist: Anberlin

Kat Trim Album: Flamejob Artist: The Cramps

Albert van Zyl Album: Coaster Artist: NOFX

Jacque Oldfield Album: Nocturama Artist: Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds

Paul Clark Album: Neon Handshake Artist: Hell is for Heroes

Ryan Shub Album: Flashmob Artist: Vitalic

Rian van Heerden Album: Frequency Artist: Overtone

Jade Mitchell (lovejadeheart!) Album: Resevoir Dogs Artist: Various Grethe Koen Album: Sci Fi Crimes Artist: Chevelle




Kat Trim +27 84 302 7774

All images by Lillith Leda (unless otherwise credited).


Dave sits and draws some parallels and then compares them... I am sitting and admiring the irony of a situation that I have now walked both sides of. On the one side is a young man discovering/surfing the fringes of a new music and a new consciousness and making a statement with the way I dressed and danced to set myself apart. It’s the way it has been and will continue to be for years to come. And now I look at it from the other side and am witness to a scene within a scene and I can see myself back then. At first I’m a little upset that such a mockery could be an evolution of where I’d started at but after that brief attempt at posturing, I come to realise they are into something real and social. Its so rare now-a-days. Sure I may of looked ridiculous to an outsider then as I convulsed like a lunatic in an attempt to out-spas the rest of the loony ward that we called a dancefloor at the time. But it felt good to be part of something new. We all go on about the how good the Old Daze were, but we always fail to capture our flagrant disregard for other people’s opinion at that stage of our lives. Call yourself a punk, a metalhead, a coffin child,a raver, a mod. Call it a growth spurt of the personality and consciousness. If you are wondering what the hell I’m on about go onto our favourite distributor of knowledge and all things video (i.e youtube) and type in “fidget dance south africa” and feast your eyes on the seizure dance that we dub fid-jitsu. The spasmodic twitches that you are witnessing is forefront of the dance scene in Jhb. It’s a scene made up of young local producers like Nick Supply, Kyle Watson, and duo Pascal and Pearce making music for local dancefloors all their own age. They dress differently, dance different and don’t give a fuck, just like some of us used to. A totally independant vibrant collection of guys providing inspiration that look, talk, and live just like their fans do. And while you might think that this type of behaviour is unique to our Jhb scene, clear that search bar

and type in Melbourne Shuffle, or Holland Hakkuh Dance and bear witness to lunacy on three different continents linked by a common strangeness/sameness. And it’s not even restricted to our century. I was watching a doccie on the UK Northern Soul Scene in 70’s the other day and wouldn’t you believe it? I saw what can only be described as proto-fidget steps being performed by hairy guys in tweed suits. After showing the footage to some coffin dodgers for authenticity and verification they proclaimed the dance to look loosely like the Charleston. And I realised that what it boiled down to, was that no matter what age you were born in it still felt good to be part of something that wasn’t necessarily gonna change the world (though in some cases it did), but was going to change who you were and sort your own values from those projected onto you without any real guidance. It was real. Which leads me to my next point. I am interested in them because they are part of something new and real in an association by music. I see and meet so many people now days who get their culture from they see around them. Everything’s cool by proxy. I’m cool because I belong. How many people do you know actually wear something because they genuinely like it or because they want someone to say “OOOOHHHHH what a nice garment!” Or the people that take their prompts and inspiration from the spate of bad local television that we get doused with on a regular basis. An omnibus of ordinary. Soap Opera scene’s imitating life, and life imitating Soap Opera scenes. People who’s values are held by a lofty celebrity ideals. Don’t “Save Darfur” you’ve never even been there, and couldn’t even point it out on a map of North yourself first. Bear in mind that I watch what my tv license allows me to, which if I can find it in own language is a bunch of crap most days. And I’m sure you don’t have to speak English,Afrikaans or Zulu for that matter to agree with that statement. But some days, just some days a piece of television will air that will truly disregard and disrespect my intellect, and for that matter, anyone who is capable of writing their own name will be offended by the utter banality. I’d sooner be stuck in Friday rush hour traffic watching the car in front edge its way millimetre by millimetre up the N1 all the way to Pretoria. The same yardstick of yawn can be extended to the some of the advertising we are exposed to on a regular basis. Sure the rarer batches are of some substance, and sometimes will elict the appropriate emotional responses (and come to think of it I am not akin to crying during particularly moving buy-me movies,)

but the majority makes me feel like I just watched my girlfriend get titty-fucked by a clown. I mean some of the low cost advertising we have to put up with is just bad. Where is it written that because something is made with a shoestring budget that it has to look like a beaten up loafer/slipper? You can still be witty and artistic and slip under your budget people, and leave us with some respect for your clients products. The same can be said of some the music hitting the airwaves lately, and as we are what we expose ourselves to, do the playlist committee live in the South Africa on planet earth? Where do you draw the line between art and entertainment. Music is meant to have a message or at the very least something engaging/alluring about it. Most of what I hear is just meaningless dribble spouted in time over some equalling mediocre music. I think Bill Hicks said it best when being ragged for taking a couple jabs at the New Kids on the Block “Come on, Bill, they’re the New Kids. They’re so good and so cleancut and they’re such a good image for the children. Fuck that! When did mediocrity and banality become a good image for your children? I want my children to listen to people who fucking rocked! I don’t care if they died in puddles of their own vomit. I want someone who plays from his fucking heart!” I think we can all strive to go out and experience something real, not something made up to sound pleasant but something that changes us the way we changed when we first heard it. It why those classics still bring out those feelings in us. And why years later we can listen to Janis, Jimi, John and Jim and associate with those emotions because they were real artists not just musicians. Which leads me back to the beginning, sitting watching a bunch of kids jump around the dancefloor like no-one is watching, and thinking “If this is what kids are now doing to break free of the shackles projected values on them, what is the next dance gonna look like?” Since I’ve used Bill I might as well close off with Bill. “We live in a world where John Lennon was murdered and Barry Manilow continues to put out fucking albums. If you are gonna kill someone, have some fucking taste. I’ll drive you to Kenny Rodgers’ house.”. Dave Skinz is a resident DJ at ESP. Plays in a band. Loves MMA. and PS3. Has a facebook fan page. And is a wordsmith.


Saving insanity was formed when rhythm guitarist Kelly was released from the King’s dungeon and decided that she didn’t hear enough music coming out from the souls of women, so she raised her mighty plectrum high in the air and made a call for all who understood the power that the female musical ability holds. A near-by wood nymph, Nicole, heard her call and, misconstruing it as a call for those who love dragonflies, ran towards Kelly. Saving Insanity was born in the forest. Soon a fair young blacksmith, Lauren, and a tough but fair midwife, Tracy, joined forces with the duo. All that was left was to find a singer and a drummer with the required 5 parts quirkiness to 9 parts hardcore... Now after the long years of hunting down the much needed drummer and singer we found an Asian party animal with a very STRANGE obsession with midgets and fat kids eating.. (..who with the help of the wood-nymph, Nicole, went on a mission to find the Blue Fairy... the Asian asked the blue fairy{from Pinocchio} for one wish...and she transformed him into a hot, leather wearing, drum playing, GIRL and re-named her Rikki Brest!!!!! Then Kelly went searching for some meaning in her life after hearing about the blue Fairy, she became very confused... and traveled to the ends of the earth where all she heard was a beautiful voice.. everywhere.. She followed the voice to a green crystal stuck in a cliff and began to dig it out.... as it was freed it burst from her hands in to a green light and where once there was a stone, stood a beautiful princess! She introduced herself as Jade and she became the front line of Saving Insanity!!!

All was well in the land until that dreadful day that Lauren left us, She had a duty to Canadia..... As their Ice Queen....The Previous Queen had passed away *RIP* And Lauren was Whisked away to fulfil her duty as the new Ice-Queen of Canadia!!! Before she left she gave us a gift.... being a blacksmith and all... Lauren Carved us a sculpture of a maiden and a guitar. We asked the Blue Fairy [Who we now keep in the closest] to give her life... she was quiet and made of steel... but she she played like a machein!!!!! her name was Sharne.... and she lead the band with her rocking riffs!!!! Once again SAVING INSANITY was complete and ready to rock your socks! How Saving Insanity came about...? Well we could say that we all grew up together and knew each other since we were little little... But that wouldn’t be true. Kelly and Nicole met through a mutual friend and after coming to know that they both had a passion for music, the search for the rest of the soon to be band was on the go! Over time, members came, and members went, but finally today after struggle and tears, we have our now completed band, Saving Insanity! Being an ALL GIRL band can be alot more different than an all guy band. We bicker amongst ourselves now and then, we sometimes unnoticeably talk about our social lives for hours on end at BAND PRACTISE but even so, we all gel incredibly well together and i think that is why we can say we create unique, melodic music together that people can enjoy no matter what their musical taste. For more info on Saving Insanity, band info, album info, tour anf gig dates, find their facebook group under the name Saving Insanity.


illustration. anastasya.eliseeva.


My wife Jenny and I have two conditional rules in our three-year-old marriage - once a month I am allowed to sleep with a hooker and when she is away for extended periods of time, I am allowed to sleep with our neighbours’ 18-year-old daughter Nancy Smith. Now the only conditions about these two rules are that my wife is never allowed to find out about either the hookers or randy Nancy. Being a writer, I spend most of my day at home while my wife works at some bank (who’s name I am not allowed to mention) as a consultant. I spend at most about five months a year really writing; the other months are spent promoting whatever I have written and mowing the lawn or something. Depending on my mood and emotional health, some months or years I simply just take off. This means that most often I have a lot of time to kill by practising my hobbies such as growing peaches in our backyard or bedding Mr and Ms Smiths’ youngest daughter. Nancy’s visits used to be a once-a-week thing due to her possessive boyfriend and her busy schedule as a first-year medical student, but the weekly visits were fine with me

since I was only fucking her for the experience of her tight vagina and her fetish to be tied up. Months later when my wife caught us in bed together for the first time, Nancy was getting fucked like a dog with her head forced into the pillow and her hands tied behind her back - a scene my wife labeled as “barbaric” and “distastefully brutal”. After about a month of screwing around, Nancy dumped her possessive boyfriend which meant that we were able to play on a daily basis. Each morning after my wife left for work, Nancy would attend her first class of the day which usually involved biting and bondage. The sweet “ding dong” sound of the front doorbell ringing while I laid in bed reading the paper went as well with my coffee as blasphemy. My first-touch with sunlight for the day would usually be when I open the door for Nancy. Here routine - yet irritating and redundant - question of “Is the lovely wife gone?” would usually be the only words out of her mouth not dictated through screams. I usually respond by saying: “I am going to fuck you so hard you are going to split in half.”


Nancy’s daily visits opened up the windows to both experimentation and wariness. When my wife caught us for the second time together I was once again entering Nancy from a rear position. This time the words “In here” were written on Nancy’s lower back with a black marker and an arrow was pointing towards her anus unlike the previous time, my wife refrained from making a comment. My affair with Nancy became the oyster garden for my inspiration as a writer, but not for my life. Even though a lot of work was being done behind the typewriter and behind the 18-year-old sexual prodigy, I kind of became bored with life. Screwing Nancy behind my wife’s back was exciting to a certain extend, but I had a bigger lust for wickedness. At the tender age of 27 I have achieved tremendous success by means of simply minimising my workload and maximising my self-confidence and persistency. But despite all of that, I have simply run out of ways to enjoy the simple things in life. It started to feel that every day I lived and every single thing I did was just another forgettable moment that has passed. The more I searched for excitement the more erratic my behaviour became, especially my new-found habit of touching myself while in conversation. My sudden change in behaviour and my refusal to go for therapy did raise some questions among my loved ones, especially my beloved wife (who won’t learn about my and Nancy’s affair for another three months). Jenny was starting to feel guilty and she admitted that due to her long hours at the office, she was neglecting me. I wasn’t that bothered by Jenny’s “negligence” because I was too busy fucking Nancy and maintaining my mini orchard to even notice that there was a distance growing between me and my wife. I was however very amused by the irony of the entire situation since I was convinced that my wife was having an affair with a co-worker, Michelle Olwagen. My suspicions of my wife having an extramarital relationship with a female co-worker didn’t bother me even the slightest bit; for starters, I was busy fucking a barely legal teenager on a daily basis and secondly, it’s


not like some other guy was putting his fat cock inside my wife. And even though I have never met or seen Michelle Olwagen before in my life, I knew someone very well who knew her very well. It was a Thursday evening and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky when I drove through the city on my way back from a meeting with my publisher. I was waiting for the green light at a robot when my eye caught two superfine women standing on the street corner; the one was smoking a cigarette and the other one was exchanging words with a distinctive gentleman who looked like a policeman. Judging by the way the women were dressed and the quality of the area, the thought that they were hookers didn’t even pass through my mind - I would rather have mistaken them for two power-dressed lawyers than streetlovers. But when they approached my car with a charismatic “Hey there, you” I knew that they are the type of women who only accepts cash. Now I have never really gone as far as my brother to actually sleep with one of the princesses of twilight, but it has always been somewhat of a hidden desire and definitely in the top spot of my todo list. If this part of my life had a chapter, I would have called it: “Meeting the other end of the rope”. Prostitutes have always been similar to a good movie to me. If a lot of different people pay money to go see a movie, it is most certainly a box-office hit. The same goes for a prostitute. If many different guys, who could rather fuck their wife or girlfriend, would go so far as to pay a woman to fuck her, then her box must surely be a hit. The two prostitutes that approached my car must have been somewhat of an upper class or new to the business, because they were too well groomed for a hooker especially the way the one’s pubic hair was trimmed into the shape of a half-moon. The same night I saw the one prostitute’s moon-shaped pubes, I learned that she does prostitution as a part-time job and to “watch people act frail”. I found this absolutely intriguing. That first night I met my two new friends - Moonflower and Gothgirl69 - I bought them both. They were so cheap, it was literally a buy one get one free special. I took them

to a Holiday Inn near my house because it would raise the minimum amount of suspicion and most importantly, it was convenient for me. Since I am the type of guy who has enough confidence in his sexual performance, I don’t do threesomes or orgies. So when we approached the elevator, I told Moonflower to kindly wait in the bar area while I take her friend, Gothgirl69 (which turned out to be a competitor), to the hotel room so we could get things up to business. After I did both of them and paid for their drinks while they waited their turn, I gave them their money and assured them that we would hook up again - I did, however, only continue seeing Moonflower. From there on it became a regular thing. The sex I had with the prostitute, Moonflower, was passionate and gentle and the sex I had with Nancy was violent. My wife, who still haven’t found out about my affairs, kept on working long hours and I was still convinced that she was sleeping with that Michelle girl. Now and then my wife would query on the bite marks and bruises on my body. Once when I contracted a mysterious rash on my dick (most likely from Nancy, but it turned out to be Moonflower), I narrowly escaped being caught out before telling my wife that I got the rash from her and that she might be suffering from some fungus on her virginal area (luckily for me, Jenny just happened to have a fungus on her left lip which she contracted from Michelle). It was close encounters like these that made me master the art of lying to Jenny, usually about the origin of my injuries. Sometimes I even confused Jenny into believing that she gave them to me during some sexual brawl. “Those are your handy work my love,” I would often say to her before accepting her apology which was usually followed by a missionary-style fuck. It is when the sex life you share with your wife is degraded to plain old missionary style that you know that the spark is gone. But in the rare times that I did however made passionate love to my wife, it was usually with anger - not the angry sex that I had with Nancy, but the type of angry sex that says, “What the fuck have we done to each other?” Sometimes Jenny wanted our lovemaking to be soft and gentle; I preferred thrusting her like I was paying to do so.

The morning my wife caught me with Nancy for the second time, I thought that it was over for sure. It was only after an embarrassed Nancy left and my wife and I sat down at the kitchen table that she confessed to having an affair. My wife told me that she was suffering from depression and that the affair was with a female colleague; she further told me that her lover had decided to end their eight-month affair after meeting a man. As I held my wife I felt her tears running down my chest - which still carried the aroma of Nancy’s pussy - and at that moment I told her that I only slept with Nancy three times and that she caught us two out of the three times. But whether my wife believed me or not about the “three times” I had been with Nancy, it was the truth when I told her that I would never see Nancy again. After four months with Nancy, we have literally exhausted our imaginations and our sexual abilities - there was simply nothing more humanly possible that we could do in the bedroom. After my wife confessed to her affair with Michelle Olwagen, we didn’t separate. It had absolutely no affect on our relationship as most people would imagine. We did however start to have somewhat of a steamier sex life - Jenny even allowed me to butt-fuck her - and she also started seeing a therapist to help her deal with her depression. Jenny and I agreed to work harder at our marriage, but I wasn’t able to let Moonflower go. With Nancy out of my life and my wife under the impression that the holes in our marriage were all patched up, I was able to continue my affair with the prostitute. One evening when my wife was out with friends, I invited moonflower over to our house for the first time. She told me that due to the feelings she started to have for me after months of sleeping together, it was no longer necessary for me to pay her. She sex that followed was the worst sex I ever had with Moonflower; I guess since money was no longer involved it just wasn’t the same. That night was the final straw in my marriage. When my wife caught me for the third time with another woman, she did have a comment. “So this is the jerk you have left me for, Michelle?”


illustration. anastasya.eliseeva.


A. The gun glistens in the badly lit room. It seems extraordinarily solid and almost alien. I am terrified of guns. I had one held to my head a few times - got to love this country. I tried to shoot one, many years back. Didn’t happen. In general – I’ve seen and lived through a fair share of violence, and it pathologically terrifies me. This metal object, to me, is a symbol of pure, faceless violence. So here I am, in this small dark room, sitting on the bed. Next to me is a stranger. Through the haze of wine and fucking - I look at his face. He spells danger. Partly because he wants to, partly because of the shape of his brow and dark eyes, partly because he just took a loaded gun from under his pillow.

The gun is cold against my cunt, which surprises me by opening to welcome the hard tip. My cunt is hot, but the rest of me freezes with terror, as I imagine the bullets inside and the kind of hole they would rip through me. .................................................................................... ..................................................................................... Later he licks my juices of the barrel of the weapon. This time he pops the magazine out first ‘’Just to be safe’’. I laugh. I still refuse to hold it. I feel the end of this ‘’fuck it all’’ night. I gather my scattered clothing, say casual good byes, and leave this non-circumstantial room, with the noncircumstantial man and his gun I just fucked.

I met him in some bar, on one of those ‘’fuck it all’’ nights. He had a sharp tongue, a husky voice and walked in at the right time. Back in his bedroom I ripped my clothes off and we fucked to Nouvelle Vague. What’s interesting is – we didn’t kiss. Just fucked. He was sick, dark and exciting. Much like me.

I am driving home through the beautiful streets of town, relieved to be alone. As I try to figure out what the hell that was all about - I feel a little ill… but not without a certain sense of achievement. The kind you get from kicking down your own boundary.

‘’Fuck… is this thing loaded?’’ – My voice, shaky.

This pointless night of boundary-crossing… I figure I want it to work as some sort of an exorcism. Whatever it is that I am hiding from in my day to day life – tonight I faced it, with my mind (and legs) open.

He silently shows me the magazine, the bullets. ‘’Of course it’s fucking loaded, bitch.’’ Bitch… I suddenly feel exceptionally sexy. I lie back and open my legs. I give him a stare, cold as the bullet. He understands.

I drive slowly. The street lights are majestic.

These nights also leave you a little lost, with a bitter taste in your mouth. And a small, gun-shaped hole in your heart.


The free album from MPI, called Evolution, reviewed by Ryan Shub.



MPI Project is in simple terms; the tangible reconstruction of the personality of a musical prodigy, an individual with an acute knowledge for what is electronic music and its surrounding culture. This individual is none than Mike Politis, the father of MPI and an astute member of South Africa’s hedd banger society. Mike’s roots lie within the breakbeat movement, but his talents extend through genres such as techno, progressive aswell minimal and minimal-tech. Mike’s journey to the top has served as a priceless experience, spanning many countries, many residencies and of course many big tracks which have made their fair share of waves in the industry. Mike’s is renowned for his live production skills as the impression he made on the Ibiza club community earlier this year, will stand the test of time… Mike’s supremely rare talent is one of his greatest assets, a skill only mastered by the best of the best, the O.G.’s of electronic music production. Through the culmination of his musical experience and effortless ability to produce pure ear pleasure, Mike has released his first official album; EVOLUTION, a short yet meaningful exploration through a diverse mix of electronic music. EVOLUTION speaks for itself; a depiction of raw progress and a clear message to all listeners; change is inevitable. This album presents itself as a systematically planned experiment; Mike’s attempt to push his sound passed his existing boundaries to the point of no return. I picked up elements of minimal, minimal-tech, techno, house and, of course, Mike’s specialty dubstep; a true journey through contemporary electronica. Mike’s breakbeat love runs thick within EVOLUTION as hard hitting beats are thrown from all angles, bound to bomb ear drums alike. MPI’s experimentation with techno styled tunes is something a bit distant from his norm; but his perfect execution has allowed for a swift and smooth transition towards a more versatile sound. After taking a couple listens, to EVOLUTION a few tracks stood out; ‘Pulsate’ caught my ear purely because it shows Mike’s mastery of the minimal-tech side of things, with its

clean sounding, bubbly beat and crisp sampling; bound to get those heads banging. ‘Empire X’ really stood out, a perfect example of MPI’s completely unique dubstep sound; out of the ordinary oscillations, deep, grindy basslines and unmatched uplifting vibes. And finally, a bit of a wild card, ‘Come Alive (feat. Paul Dawson)’ caught my attention as it shows Mike’s seamless vocal integration into his new sound. EVOLUTION is Mike’s masterpiece, his gift to us all, a true depiction of pure musical passion. So now when asked who MPI PROJECT is, my answer is simple; ‘Its not who MPI is, its what MPI is… MPI is a symbol of evolution, the movement towards an immaculate sound… the sound of S.A. putting the world to shame with its innovation and fearless approach to the unknown. South Africa holds little influence on the world’s electronic music scene, but when an entity such as MPI stands out so significantly, it gets me thinking… we’ve got the best sitting on our door step, we just need to open our ears a little wider. Mike all I can say… Respekt…enjoy the journey mate!

Ryan Shub plays dubstep, and runs of Dankage Beats. Or join the Dankage Beats facebook group.


A film, shot, written, directed, edited and produced by

Jacque Oldfield.


The Dykumentary is a mockumentary based on lesbian stereotypes from A to Z, every letter in the alphabet is a character. It is totally fictional, over the top and based on the various social, economic and cultural circles of the lesbians in South Africa. Shot documentary style, each of the 26 characters is interviewed on and off camera in their everyday environment, be it at work, their place of recreation, home or in their social life. With lesbians we spoke to, everyone seemed to laugh when they could relate to or knew someone that fell into one of the categories. Based completely on stereotypes and over exaggerating the characters we can laugh at ourselves. Films which inspired or can be used as references are Spinal Tap, Drop Dead Gorgeous, Little Britain, Human Remains and Kenny. Although this film is culturally relevant to South Africa, we believe it would be just as effective anywhere in the world, we also believe that it doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t only apply to a lesbian market but to a straight market too. A real treat for all you vagiterians.

The film was shot, written, directed, edited and produced by Jacque Oldfield. It was an official selection for the Out In Africa film Festival which took place September this year, and sent overseas to other festivals in Switzerland and Paris. It sold out 3 out of for shows just missing a full house by ten seats at the final viewing! Ultimately, itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a taste or a pilot for a series. It will basically introduce 26 characters which will become a 26 part series with 24min episodes each episode covering one characterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s life. The Dykumentary will be released shortly to DVD. For more info go to The Dykumentary facebook page for the latest updates.


illustration. anastasya.eliseeva.


This is not a story about sex. This is a story about art. “I should have taken care of that fucking bear a long time ago.” Those were the last words I heard my dad said as he drove off in his Mercedes Benz for the last time. I was 13-years-old when my parents went through a state of separation (as the child psychiatrist had put it to me), which soon evolved into my father going AWOL and then eventually an entertaining divorce which made war profiteers look like cornercafé Jews and Sarah Palin running for office as legitimate as butt-fucking a 12-year-old without a

condom. That period of my life is know as “The Rabbi’s finger tastes like my brother” and it is probably the best years of my life for several reasons which will became clearer as you read this. I have quite a bright memory of that period in my life as it was the first time that I became bored with the routinely, consistent ways of human life and even my own lifestyle for that matter, as I searched for what was known as The Special People’s Club (Of cause back then I didn’t know there was something like The Special People’s Club). So irritated I was with the pure world and the fact that I was too young to go to strip clubs that I even started hanging out with our neighbours’ grandson Brandon. Now Brandon was three years my senior, an avid TV game player, a petty thief and a smoker - at least back in those days it was still a bit rebellious for a 16-yearold to smoke; these days you wonder what else they are doing. What I liked most about him, if not the only thing I liked about him, was that he was an entertainer and he didn’t even know that he was one. For starters, he always made himself and those who cared about him believe that he would quit the smoking when he reaches the age of 18. When he eventually did turn 18 he didn’t stop smoking, he just switched from Winston lights to Camel lights.


Brandon’s appearances and behaviour was also very typical, so if you don’t have an imagination, just imagine Jay from “Jay and Silent Bob”. For those who do have an imagination, he had the look of the typical rebellious teen of the mid-nineties – he was at his prime in an age that paved the way for the mallrat teens of the 21st century. He always wore a star-studded earring in his left ear, he dressed like that deceased rapist from that Seattle grunge band and he had long hair which was occasionally tied in a ponytail. I think it’s safe to say he looked like one of the Columbine killers (Not the handsome one, but the other one). Brandon often visited his grandparents who were really nice pensioners that lived next door to us in Paarl. His grandfather drove a brown ’72 Chevy and I would never forget the gross smell of his homemade beer; Brandon’s grandmother was… well she was just old and she once saw me taking a dump in our backyard, in the company of a bear, as she was walking past the fence. If you would ask me, I would say that the real reason why Brandon’s parents dropped him off at his grandparents was that they had high hopes that he might find God or even better, a barber. Now my friendship with a baffled hippie/metal-head, if there is really a difference between the two, was strongly frowned upon by my parents and in quite a sadistic way, forbidden. But it was never really officially said to me that I was not allowed to hangout with the neighbours’ loser houseguest. The message that Brandon was bad news and a potential negative influenced was rather passed on to me by means of code; pretty much like the anti-sex education I received as a teen/young-adult. “That piece of shit smokes - he is going to die,” my dad told me on several occasions, if I remember correctly. “Have he offered you any cigarettes, Albert? If he did, you are not going to be able to sleep at night and then you might die.” I never knew whether my dad was making a joke or not when he said that smokers are going to die, because even though I was just 13-years-old, I knew very well


that everyone was anyway going to die - I always said that it’s just a matter of who is lucky enough to go before the other. Yet every time I would look out the window and see Brandon having a smoke on his grandparents’ porch I would feel compelled to indulge in something different than the quality, yet dull life I was given to by my parents, who now pretty much hated each other like leather and concrete. Brandon never used me like my father used my mother, but I used Brandon like my mother used my father. Brandon wasn’t my escape, he was my science project. He was my steppingstone in my search for what would one day be The Special People’s Club. And against all odds, and popular belief, my long-haired friend never touched me inappropriately as most people would expect from a character like him, but he did introduce me to sniffing Tip-Ex thinners and spray-paint. Four years later when I woke up one evening naked with one half of my body in the swimming pool, I realised that inhaling spraypaint out of a plastic bag is really not such a good idea; right there my four-year old habit of sniffing spray-paint came to an end before I lost all my brain cells (Luckily I didn’t become that stupid, because my IQ is 135. I tested it this morning). But when Brandon and I occasionally ransacked the local 7 Eleven of its Tip-Ex thinners supplies, I sometimes felt like I was getting there - if not somewhere, just anywhere. That was of cause till my grandfather brought home that stupid bear. If you ask me, I think it’s illegal to own a black bear in South Africa, especially if you keep it as a domestic pet in an open yard with a metre high fence. But that bear stayed with us for four-month until it escaped and some farmer shot it dead while it was feasting on ripe grapes in a nearby vineyard. I still remember the awardwinning front page story in the Paarl Post: “Black bear mauls local grapes”. That bear was fucking horny – always running around humping trees and trying to rape our elderly German shepherd, Sasha – but it did serve its purpose. The journalist who wrote the award-winning story, Michael Rabe, was promoted to editor of the Paarl Post, all thanks to the story he wrote about our bear. And Michael was a good editor; that was until the unpleasant rumour arose about Michael

fucking his mother in Dros’ restroom and he was ashamedly forced to resign.

change… For some unexplainable reason the bear’s bizarre horniness was passed on to me. The thought of it was a bit too superstitious for an intelligent bloke Now my mom hated that bear and my dad hated it even like me, but the more I thought about it, the more more. My grandfather didn’t live with us, so it wasn’t sense it made. At the age of 13 I wasn’t that much into his problem anymore. “Here, you take this bear,” he girls, or could I rather say I was not thinking about told my dad the day he brought it to our house. “What anal- and double penetration each time I saw a girl the fuck are we going to do with a bear? It belongs in a hauling her stunning ass in the street. But after that bear zoo or something!” my dad yelled at his dad. “It’s going left, my sexuality went as primitive as man himself; to bring you good things, I can feel it,” my grandfather not to mention my masturbation techniques! I was assured my father. “His name is Rocko.” About a month masturbating to pregnant woman, toilet seats, trees, after we got Rocko, my father’s sleeping on the couch in feet, flowers, bears, you name it. And another thing the lounge just became my father not coming home at all that convinced me that Rocko’s horniness was passed and then he was gone. But it was for the better, because on to me, was that when that farmer found him in his as soon as my father left my mother stopped crying at vineyard having a go at his grapes, he wasn’t raping night. Now I liked that bear, but I kind of thought he was them as the Rocko we knew would have done, but he a pretty useless and stupid thing to have around, not to was busy eating them. mention his perverted nature (Being named after a porn star and all). Even Brandon stopped coming over to Over the years my horniness-formely-known-asour house because he was too scared of Rocko, but that Rocko’s just became worse and worse, but I never didn’t bother me because as I said earlier, Brandon was saw it as a curse; I saw it as the road to what would my science project and he already served his purpose eventually be The Special People’s Club. I was 13, I in my life. One night after Rocko broke into Brandon’s never even kissed a girl, but I was already a sex addict – room and tried to rape him in his sleep, Brandon got a lifelong sickness that is, unless you are Cliff Richards, such a fright that he never came to Paarl again. This not as bad as having cancer. And over the years my kind of pleased his grandparents which saw him as the horniness was never really truly relieved in the way that reason for their money disappearing from their wallets. I would have liked it to be relieved – that is obviously Although the attempted rape case never went further by a female. But the older I got, the bigger my need than a couple of laughs and giggles, my mother wanted was to hurt other people’s feelings in order to feel the bear to go. “Here, you do it. It is your bear,” she said better about myself. After years and years of aggressive as she handed me the shovel. masturbation, simulated sex on life-size teddy bears and practising the muff-dive on a Subway sandwich, I was I never had the heart to do Rocko in. It was wrong. Yeah, not nearly there when that day came that I had my first he was an insanely horny bear, but he was a nice bear. “I sexual experience. I was in my first year of university am not going to kill Rocko today,” I told my mom every and living in Pretoria, but the first term was over and time she handed me that shovel. I was visiting my friends in Paarl. We had the crazy “Albert, poor Sasha practically lives in fear under the idea to drink as much as we can and see who could get kitchen table of being raped by that stupid bear. So kill alcohol poisoning first. We hit bar after bar; al three that bear now before it rapes that old bitch or even worse, drinking spots in Paarl. At some point I thought I was one of the kids that live in the street!” going to die. I had so much Jaggermeifter and talked But still I didn’t kill that bear and I wasn’t planning on so much bullshit, and I think [I performed oral sex] doing so, because I knew it served a special purpose in on a stripper at the Shangri-La. Whether I really did not just our lives, but in other people’s lives. A week perform oral sex on that stripper, no one knows. But later Sasha died of what we believed was a heart attack. the evidence is haunting and I never regret anything, The vet, and a good family friend, Karel van Rooyen, because as I lay in my room on Rocko’s warm furcoat, concluded that it was a fatal panic attack. And the next I thought to myself: “I am finally in The Special day, four-months after we got that bear, he was gone. We People’s Club.” all read Michael Rabe’s article the following morning and pretended as if the entire bear-epic never happened. Ps. Please don’t lecture me on a “dull ending”. This is not a novel. This is merely an autobiography/narrative With Brandon, Sasha and my father gone, I was starting piece of writing about my parents’ divorce and that to believe that maybe the bear wasn’t really such a stupid bear we had. good thing as I first thought. But that was all about to



a note ripped from Grethe Koen’s clutches, with her permission.... OK, so I consider myself a rocker, and love alternative music like the tap-dancing child I will one day have. But I have a guilty confession to make... I love pop music. I love it so much that I want to roll around in it. I want to rub it over my skin and swallow it and shit it out again. The more trashy pop is, the more I love it. The more it reeks of plastic and fakery the more I want to shove it up my nostrils. The more booty shaking I see the more I want. The more money being tossed around on screen the more I squeal with delight. I like pop because it’s never had scruples about what it is. Its shameless industry manufactured music catering for the masses…it’s called pop because it’s POPULAR music. It’s not supposed to be niche or indie or moral or make some kind of deep and intellectual statement. It’s there to make money. Pop is what it is; disposable music useful to shake your ass to, to make you feel stupidly happy and to sing to in the shower. With lyrics like “lucky my breasts are small and humble so you don’t confuse them with mountains” we’re not heading for poet laureate status here. But if the beat is tight we will dance all night. And that, my friends, is all that matters about pop. Now, if pop is disposable, trashy and shamelessly sexual in order to sell more records and holds nothing sacred…then why try being anything less? That is why this little whore is such an inspiration.

I mean LOOK AT HER. She’s like slut Barbie. It’s like industry needed a polythene cut-out money horse and came up with this! She might even have a shlong! Does she use this rumor shamelessly to gain more notoriety? YES! And do I care? NO! And if you’re already that plastic, hell, why not go ALL THE WAY! I want pop stars to be even MORE shameless, even MORE provocative, even MORE fake and open about the fakery that is their music. Hell, I want their voices so synthesized they’d make Richard Hawking sound natural. I want them wrapped in plastic and shitting out money. I want them rolling around in corporate jizz. I want Enrique Iglesias bent over and taking it up the ass by his record producer while he simultaneously chokes out dollars and cents like poker chips and sings “I can be your Hero.” I want the Black Eyes Peas dry humping each other in front of some industry goons while millions stand around cheering. I want Britney Spears fucking my television screen. I want it and I want it on my MTV every second of every day. The beauty is, when I don’t want to listen to it anymore, I can just put in my ipod and listen to my alternative music. That’s what it’s there for…TO BE AN ALTERNATIVE. Just don’t think it exempts you from the system or any kind of conformity. “I hate fucken pop music, and how it makes everyone dress the same.” Yeh, we get it, you’re an individual.

TROUBLE iss01 vol01