Americans have got their own Westside Story while Jozi's got Soweto Story. Kasiekulture brings you one story that never made it to theatre
This is a true story; A dodgy Bushbuckridge celebrity businessman who owns lots of taxis and a couple of shebeens (the fancy patrons from TUT call them taverns) once organised a whiskey gulping contest at one of his shebeens (esikhaleni saka Bra Pat). I'm not going to mention his popular name because he's rumoured to be a decorated hitman of the taxi industry war era.
Another reason why I'll deliberately forget his name is because he's suddenly secured himself a bit-part in Muvhango (that Recycle Bin of serious dramas' unwanted actors). When I first saw him in Muvhango (Monday to Thursday on SABC2 at 21h00) I was impressed, more in the line of "here's this ghetto-boy from Ga-Relane village who, without matric or a performance arts piece of paper secured a role on television, during prime time nogal". That's until I realised that his was art imitating life. The brother was focking people up, trying to open a shebeen in Muvhango.
Now, seeing him trying to open a shebeen in Muvhango when I knew a story about him from his real life shebeen antics gave me goosebumps. Back to the story. Two years ago he organised a hard liquor g
ulping contest and the poison was Jack Daniels (750ml). You had to finish the lot in one giant gulp (obviously interrupted by gulplets for breath's sake) and put an empty bottle down. The prize, you stood to win another bottle of Jack and R100. There were no preliminary or knockout rounds where most contestants would have been eliminated (obviously everyone would have made it past the tot and maybe dropped out at a nip or half-jack stage). It was more like Turfontein, one final, winner takes all and no qualification to start at pole position.
The brother, due to his lack of that elusive Senior Certificate and a fraction of common sense did not figure out that the contestant will suffer alcohol poisoning, more so gulping on an empty stomach that was last occupied by R2 worth chips seventeen hours ago. And then here was this thirsty rural boy who has never tasted Uncle JD, licking his lips as if he was about to get a kiss from Paris Hilton or a freebie from Milky Lane (or give a blowjob to a donkey).
Round One; the tocsin sounds. He lifts the bottle and raises it to empty the contents, 'gdoop...gdoop...gdoop!' and the people ululate, 'gdooop....gdooop....gdooop!' and he gets down on his knees, 'gdoooop..................gdoooop...............gdooop!'. His spine gives in and he collapses - right there infront of the fans and spectators. Then, his chest wheezes, then, his eyes turn white, then, his skin goes pale, then, crystal white vomit follows, then, he has no pulse, then, he dies. Anti-climax.
The young man dies because he acted like a camel that spent so many days galloping across a desert and wanted to quench its thirst. They say a camel once arrived at Friscona Valley (the alleged source of Valpre Still water) after 40 days of crossing Sahara. It was December time when demand for bottled water was at its peak. The humped m!"£$%^&*a emptied the stupid pond in two large gulps, resulting in the folks who claim Friscona filling their blue bottles with Silulumanzi's H2O. Then those creepy crawlies from M.Net's Carte Blanche (Sunday 19h00) show did a litmus test and found some fluoride, chlorine and unnatural salts. They did a show, Valpre protested and Carte Blanche stood by its story, resulting in Valpre buying full page ads in Sunday newspapers to plead its case to the consumers and inviting experts to come forward and test for themselves which Kasiekulture did, ordering 2000 bottles which we are still drinking today. How much does a full page in Sunday Times newspaper cost? Your company's second (line) from the bottom line, before tax. The moral of this story? When a camel has gone 40 days and nights without water - it only obeys its thirst, not even an AK47 will scare it.
Back to my point. The suddenly dead boy saw the angels because of his fascination with experimenting. He died because he obeyed his thirst. Is it a crime to obey? His thirst killed him. He only managed to drink half the liquid. And died. This is a true story, ask anyone from Bushbuckridge and they'll tell you, even better with sound bites and Powerpoint slides.
PS. The brother was never arrested and on the day of the 'camel's funeral I saw him in his customary 14-car motorcade. That was before Muvhango and with him trying to open a shebeen there I feared for the worst.

...read on

Some couple of years ago Scarface had a song called Mary-Jane. It had intoxicating lines like 'you's a natural cuz you come from seed/ i feel happy just to hear your name/ do your thing Mary-Jane'. And before him some township kids went looney trying to live the title of Dr Dre's album The Chronic plus the lines from the Next Episode 'smoke weed everyday'. They tried it and today they are chained at Standerton with an IQ of -32 Kasiekulture draws inspiration from all these and drops you a gem. PARENTAL ADVISORY; Not for children under 18
This is a story that is going to be true; They say we should strive to find good out of every mishap or bad that befalls the human species or the homo sapiens. I sat down and analysed the misfortune that befell the poor thirsty Bushbuckridge bloke and thought of coming up with my own contest. Not the shooters (your Springboks, Blow-jobs or Spanish arseholes) orientation exercise, nor the green bottle (Heineken, Windhoek, Amstel or Lite) contest, otherwise if I was to convene these ones I wouldn't struggle to find judges and sponsors.
I want to run my own Cannabis Brotherhood Competition otherwise known as The Spliff Contest. It's got its female version (like with NBA and WNBA because we live in a democracy and if I exclude the sistas I might get all feminist (angry-women) organisations calling for my head) called The Sisterhood Cannabis Pageant. This will be a contest for rough-rugged and raw weedheads, the corner dwellers, truck and taxi drivers, intellectuals and those smokers still enjoying a pipe or two once in a while from the discomfort of a windowless closet. I'll cater for them all. Mine will be like horse-racing, Durbanville-style as well, no preliminary rounds. Here are my categories;
1. Best Bottlekop maker,
2. Best Rolled Zol,
3. Fastest made bottlekop,
4. Fastest Rolle
d Zol,
5. Best Weed (we'll invite King Mswati to enter the Swazi while King Zwelithini will enter the Durban Poison. Here, winner walks away with a 17-years-old virgin from the losing dynasty),
6. Best Solo Zol smoker (mixed and pure),
7. Best Solo Bottlekop smoker,
8. (Orgy) Best Group Zol Smokers,
9. (Orgy) Best Group Bottlekop smokers,
10. Solo Pot (and pipe) Smoker and
11. (Orgy) Best Pot (and pipe) Smokers.
12. Then there'll be a golden goal opportunity called 'Waiting to Exhale' (this here goes to a smoker who keeps the smoke in their lungs longer after the zol is finished. I'm soliciting Whitney Houston to sponsor it)
Prizes will include a year's supply of your favourite weed brand and Rizlas if you are sophisticated, but if you are ghetto we'll fix you a thick Cape Town telephone directory courtesy of Blaque and Joburg's Yellow Pages courtesy of Kgaitsedi for all the checks you'll need. If you are a novice you can still get ready-made cones, the composition is your choice. Dr Dre's The Chronic and Chronic 2000 CDs plus Up In Smoke Tour DVD. We can throw a one-on-one with Snoop Dogg in the hizza for the sistas who think Doggystyle rocks. We'll also throw in Medical Aid for the days when you wake up with a blocked chest, needing a doctor and we'll hook you up a well-paying government job to help you afford the good food that should accompany every puffing session. Plus 365 Durex condoms for extra sensitivity. I'm also thinking about a 1969 VW Beetle with central locking, for those days when cops want promotion and try to bust you while you are shooting the breeze.
I was thinking of securing sponsorships from XPS or HDL (for the safe delivery of the Swazi and DP), Gunston cigarettes (for vika), chocolate-flavoured Rizla (the art of rolling), catering from Pappas Pizzeria and Nandos (some weedheads crave chow after killing a cone), Mary-Jane Poisoned Lunches Smokers Rooms (see main picture -for their loyal chaf-possie support through all the rainy years and the masquerade) and Mbombela Municipality for Weed-Free Day declaration.
On a serious note though, I'm looking for objective judges like the ones who sit on the Zimbabwe High Court. Including this one poet who swears to have smoked a spliff with Jesus Christ. And right there I require the support of the South African Police Service to provide me with the files of folks they arrested for marijuana related crimes in the past who are currently out of jail to come and be judges. If they are on parole, this can be their community service.
And finally, I can use the services of former United States of America president Bill Clinton (who puffed but didn't inhale) and a High Court judge to chair the adjudicaing committee. If anyone has Senor Gareth Prince's phonenumbers can you please hook me up.
No Rastafarians will be allowed to contest. No family members of Kasiekulture, friends, and fellow bloggers are allowed to enter. Contesants should have been smoking for at least three months. Random drug tests will be conducted to ensure that the perfomance and results are not rigged. The judges's decision is final and no correspondence will be entered into. Pseudonyms are accepted but we'll need your Green ID printed name and number. All contestants will leave blood samples to help organisers improve on the future execution of the contest. The rules are compulsory and binding. All contestants must bring proof of being weedheads, at least two hundred seeds in a bottle. We'll conduct saliva tests.

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