10 Reasons Fame Can Go Fuck Itself

 
By Haai van der Schyff

1 Famous people are cunts
Even if famous people are cool, the okes who hang with them suck. Once you're famous, you end up hanging in places that charge forty bucks just to get in and then fifteen for a bladdy SAB beer. And the mellow normal cats can't even get near you coz they don't fit the dress code. So eventually you become a cunt yourself, just because you're famous. That's why fame can go fuck itself.

2 Famous people can't smile
Ous say things like, "That's fuckin' funny," with a straight face and don't even smirk, in case someone takes a photo. If it's so funny, why don't you laugh, you fuckin' famous cunt? Also, most celebs are on the cat and the charlie and all those drugs that take away your expressions. So they feel totally fabulous inside, but from the outside they look like someone sprayed them in the face with botox. Either that, or they are on botox! Fame. You can fuckin' have it, bru.

3 Famous people never fall in love
Famous cats are always dating other famous cats. Everyone they go out with is just another prop to enhance their careering quest for fame so they can make the mags with pics of their fucked-up designer lounge in fuckin' Parkhurst and pics of them with their black doberman. As if normal cunts don't have lounges and dobermans. Then when one of them stops being famous, they either become good okes again, or they find another famous person to go out with, like a cunt.

4 Famous people work too hard
Even if they only on the radio for three mingey hours a day, the rest of the time they're in the gym or doing appearances in shopping malls or pushing play on some fucked-up CD player in some kak club in Boksburg or judging shows where desperate laaities humiliate themselves for half a chance at ten seconds of semi-fame, which is fucked up to begin with anyway. Ous should find a chick that they dig and marry her and have kids, coz love is all that matters. Fame is a load of kak.

5 Fame makes people dumb
To be ultra famous, you have to appeal to as many people as possible, and most people are as dumb as fuck. So your shit becomes so mind-numbingly, lowest-common-denominatorly stupid that even a retarded dog is entertained by it. Is that ever gonna help humanity evolve? Not a fuck, bru. That's why no-one wise is famous. And if a famous person ever does anything wise, okes will just tune, "No, man. Don't try to be clever. Do that one where you fall on your arse again."

6 Fame is public prostitution
Whenever a famous person looks in the mirror, they tune themselves, "You poes! You sold out!" Nothing of any quality is ever going to make any money, so every poor fucker has to compromise their youthful idealism to make a living. Except famous okes hate themselves more than normal people. That's coz their fans keep telling them how awesome they are, meanwhile deep down inside they know they're a poes.

7 Sex is too easy
Wherever famous people go, people want to fuck them. They hope a little bit of their famous specialness will rub off on them. But it doesn't, coz after a famous person fucks you they phone their manager on their cell, and go, "I'm in a suburb called Walmer. Come get me the fuck out of here." Real people only have one sex partner per year and are bladdy grateful. So they learn that sex is special, even if it only lasts 48 seconds.

8 Fame makes you buy kak
Famous ous sign endorsement deals for the biggest load of crap, because crap sells and only the makers of crap can afford famous spokesmen. So you buy a razor coz the famous oke says it rocks, meanwhile it sucks just as much cock as every other overpriced motherfuckin' razor out there. That's why fame can go fuck itself. And whoever makes razors can too. And those expensive fuckin' tops for electric toothbrushes. Cunts.

9 You meet too many people
Famous okes are for ever bumping new okes who tune them the same kak about, "I checked you on the TV," and they're always being fully polite, without actually getting to know the dudes. So famous okes have met millions of fans, but they've probably got fewer friends than you have. The oke who's probably got the most friends in the world is this oke called Boz, who used to live in Grahamstown. He's fuckall famous.

10 Fame makes people waste their time
Okes end up watching kak TV or reading fucked-up, bullshit magazines and shit because they wanna see all these famous fucks, just cause they can play rugby or they had a boobjob or their face is fuckin' symmetrical. Meanwhile they should be reading some proper ancient wisdom or getting to know each other properly and learning to love. Because love is the answer and chasing celebrity is a load of kak. Fame can go fuck itself one time.

I’m not a visitor! Are you a visitor?

The first ones I met were Algerians. At the Rosebank Woolworths Food. They were handsome Arab-looking okes, buying flags. When I got outside, they were putting them on the roof of their 4X4 hire car. A South African flag and an Algerian one.
That’s the green and white one with a red star and crescent on it. I know that one. “You guys from Algeria?” I tuned them. Pretty soon we were discussing their nailbiting qualification campaign and the perfidy of their Egyptian rivals.
The next guys I spotted were shaven-headed Englishmen in the bogs at the Baron. I tried to initiate a chat, but the guy got all facetious on me. “How am I enjoying it so far? Well, it’s quite an enjoyable pee…”
The next World Cup visitors I saw were all journalists, prowling Sandton with cameras and microphones looking for people to interview. They don’t really count.
I didn’t see any visitors. Or, if I did, it was hard to know for sure they were visitors. They look a lot like South Africans. That’s the problem with the Rainbow Nation. Anyone could plausibly be South African.
And here I was, all keen to be hospitable and no visitors presented themselves. I went and saw Die Antwoord and there were only South Africans there. Look & Listen? South Africans. KFC? South Africans, and a guy in a photographer’s jacket who could’ve been Brazilian. Or from Westbury.
We go watch the rugby at the Brazen Head and the place is crawling with Saffas. It’s so packed that me and Baby have to sommer stand by the bar.
We catch the end of the Bafana game and a rather iffy Bok performance in the first half. I go for a pee to drain all the Stella draught.
A guy in a Bafana shirt is at the next urinal. He finishes before me and then loiters a bit.
“I hope you guys are having a nice time here…”
“Ja, this is my favourite Brazen Head. It’s better than the one in Sandton…”
The guy gets a confused look on his face and then looks a little disappointed. “Oh, you’re… Where are you from?”
“Joburg. PE originally…”
“Oh… So you’re not from overseas?”
Poor guy. He thinks I’m a visitor. Maybe it was me ordering the Stella. He was so keen to welcome me to South Africa. He’s clearly just as desperate to find some World Cup visitors as I am.
Back in the bar we manage to find a table. The waitress is super polite. She constantly hovers and at one point explains to us what peri-peri sauce is.
When she heads off to place our order, I give Baby a tip, “They think we World Cup tourists. Don’t give the game away. They might give us a free dessert.”
“Maybe. But then they’ll expect us to tip like tourists too.”
Fair enough. “Enkosi sisi,” I tell her when she comes back. “Ndicela i-Stella.”