In my perennial quest for the ultimate literary taboo there is nothing more controversial than death. The dead must be respected, even cherished, regardless of their sins committed while flatly footed on mother earth. It doesn’t matter whether you were embezzling tax dollars, poaching animals or the foreman for a Ku-Klux-Klan Nazi foot fetish society; passing on is a sure way for some sort of final respect to be earned.  Utter bollocks! Our alcoholic former health minister, loved by garlic and beetroot farmers alike, passed away in the last year from, yip you guessed it; liver failure. Saturating your body with enough liquor to power a Fiat Punto and committing a minor genocide through continued AIDS denialism does not garner any kind of admiration. Frankly I’m glad she’s gone, another stain cleansed from our tarnished carpet of political history. And while I sit here awaiting a lightning bolt to strike me down for my moral indiscretions, I’m taking a look at the 2009 calendar year and thinking it wasn’t a good one to be a celebrity. And most of these deaths were not “natural causes”. Sure you have Beatrice Arthur, that beloved old sex kitten from the Golden Girls, who  kicked the bucket at 86. And while I cant be sure, I’m near certain she was wearing a crotchless cow girl suite when her lights went out. But on the whole,  there were some eerie passings this last 12 months. Circumspect deaths were in greater abundance than black eyes on Rihanna; and they don’t seem to be stopping anytime soon. So heres a plea to celebrities for 2010; don’t operate heavy machinery, drive at the speed limit and don’t overdo the Viagra if you’re a sexually adventurous 85 year old with a heart condition.

Recently I received what I can only describe as a shocking pronouncement from my mother “I’m only going to eat raw foods from now on”. Gasp! You treacherous culinary heathen! How dare you defile the sanctuary of my dietary prowess! How could my own flesh and blood make me choose between kin and a tasty sirloin? And while I went out and got a triple quarter-pounder with extra cheese purely to spite this perfidious creature, I began to consider its implications on my daily living. Granted I looked down to see a burger that resembled a still born fetus, but something inside me began to think that depraved animal slaughter and MSG fuelled French fries shouldn’t be the be-all and end-all of my nutritional intake. However raw uncooked vegetable supplements had left my parents fridge looking like a horse trough, and I wasn’t about to saddle up. But surely I could take a middle ground? Then I met a woman, and oh how many downhill tales of sacrifice begin that way. She adopts a novel dictum of neo-veganism, and while it might sound like a new cultish Nazi menu, its slightly more Jew friendly. Chicken is allowed, to a degree. And while you’re probably sitting there thinking its like practicing the 12 step program with a beer, its health benefits, both on a moral and physical scale, are indisputable. So for the next month I followed a similar path. 3am morning missions to a 24 hour Maccy D’s were on hold and I did a little exploration into the world of wheatgrass, spirulina and goji berries. This heinous month culminated in Christmas dinner, where I managed to fit no fewer than 4 farm animals on my plate at one time. But the experiences I learned along the way have shaped the way I’ll “chow” for the rest of my life.

So you’ve received the thrilling news that “you’re a really a great guy, but i’m just not ready for commitment” or you’ve walked in on the Mrs wearing a horse bridal while your boss is playing the role of a pantsless jockey, or my personal favourite, “I like you as a friend”. Your emotions flare and a sudden fury builds, in your incensed state of rage you whack a vase as you leave her house in a huff. As you drive away, aiming for any unfortunate squirrel, rodent or small child that happens to cross your path, you realise a rather problematic conundrum that is bound to cause a slight hiccup on the road to emotional recovery: How do i get my shit back from her place? If its something small like a toothbrush, write it off to the doldrums of “doing it for the nookie”, but if you’ve left something of monetary or sentimental value, how do you re-cooperate your loss? Outsurance is great but a romantic spat is a sure-fire way to overload your premiums. Unless you have balls the size of melons, or suffered minor head trauma during a motorbike accident, going back to retrieve your goods is not really an option either. Downing a bottle of jack and putting quantities of booger sugar up your nose so that you have the courage of King Leonidas will probably result in physical harm, so that rules you out of the equation pretty much completely. So how do you get your stuff? The following is a guide to not only retaining your possessions, lost in the mists of horny bitches, but a way to make sure that no matter how defeated you may feel, you get to have the last laugh.

The primordial soup from which we are all formed has a few distinctive traits that it tends to apply to all its spawn. “Here’s a penis for you little boy, and a vagina for you darling girl”. But sometimes the almighty tends to negate certain rules and biological regulations. This tragic slap of the genetic hand is not a laughing matter, by any means. But if you know you’re a woman and look down one day in the shower to see a veiny third leg protruding from your cervix; don’t get into the Hollywood spotlight, by doing so you become subject to public scrutiny and the object of my satirical firing squad. Fame blurs ethical boundaries; your sex life is public knowledge, your life choices are scrutinized and the debate about your sexual orientation is as open as Julius Malemas vagina at a communist bring-and-braai. Recently there have been a few celebs in awkward gender situations. Naturally as a proud South African Caster Semenya immediately springs to mind. She got “dicked” around by our blithering bunch of incompetents at the South African athletics association and may have her world championship medal revoked over the fact that she has balls instead of a fallopian tract. They continue to deny that her muscular physique, chin stubble and overly formed wanking arm mean she is a man, but the controversy surrounding her has really helped destroy their credibility. Suddenly the nation is captivated by gender issues, is it a bird? Is it a man?  No, it’s a… ummm… ahhh… the new bad guy for Star Trek 2, and it can run the 800m in under 1 minute 56 seconds! But in the glitzy world of Hollywood’s elite, there seem to be a couple of stars hiding, or indeed creating bulges where there shouldn’t be. So naturally I found the only way to keep my writing integrity, would be to take my journalistic scapula and test it out on the red carpet.

Rush hour traffic: The Chernobyl of 21^st century 5pm weekdays. I hate waiting in line at the best of times, but when its on a carbon monoxide soaked highway and your only company comes in the form of DJ Fresh with his group of special needs children and anger management deprived taxi drivers;  I tend to get a bit frustrated. Its probably the most unexcitable activity in modern times, kind of like sex with an unconscious Whoopi Goldberg. But load 25 kilos of uncut cocaine in your boot and all of a sudden your pulse races, your brow sweats and every metro traffic officer is a game show host giving away a luxury cruise to a state penitentiary. It’s a lucrative business where the rewards are only rivaled by its risk. It’s a career previously reserved for mustached Latino men who smoke hand rolled cigarillos, but now the Suid Afrikaaner braai vleis connoisseur is starting to mule large quantities of illegal narcotics to every corner of the globe. However, like herpes in Tin Roof, they’re beginning to get caught with an ever increasing frequency. The most shocking part is that our government is turning its back on these smugglers, and if you’ve got caught with a couple dozen condoms packed with heroin in your sphincter, then the trouble caused by a bunch of unhappy Indonesian custom officials outweighs five thirty on the M3 every time. But are the trafficers taking it a bit too far? No one likes a spliff shortage, but mothers placing cannabis in their children’s pram mattresses to avoid suspicion are twirling the moral tight rope a bit firm. I’ve noted on a couple of occasions that drug laws are counterproductive for the most part, so naturally I feel some sympathy towards hoarders of the cargo. But idiotic ketamine carrier pigeons are just drug rodents with wings, and sometimes they deserve to get shot down. But where do they serve their time? And as South Africans do we want them back here if they’re caught overseas? But most importantly if caught Down Under with 8 black bags of White Widow Rhino Northern Poison cross Dyslexic Caribbean G-15; who gets to keep the weed?