Posts Tagged ‘tequila

25
Aug
11

SlickTiger And The 10 Year Highschool Reunion

I wasn’t sure if anyone gave two shits that I was flying up to the Big Smoke awhile back for my 10 year highschool reunion, so I never wrote a follow-up post saying what it was actually like.

Since writing that post though no less than three of my regular readers have asked me what went down so I figured I owed it to them to give a full account of the sheer insanity, the mind-bendingly twisted and life-alteringly fucked up shit that went down that night.

So pull up a chair, this post’s gonna leave you a changed person…

Cool, still here? Rad, sorry for the over-dramatic intro, the reunion wasn’t all that life-changing but I’m glad you clicked the link cause there was one funny thing that happened that night that bares repeating.

To be perfectly honest, I enjoyed the Friday night I spent up in Jozi way more than the actual reunion night itself on Saturday. I just kicked back at my good buddy Peggles’ place while a whole host of my Joburg buddies came by and we spent the night getting rat-faced at his flat and playing darts.

 

 

It was just good times. One of those waypoints on the road that is life where you get to catch up with old buddies and knock back a few tequilas, swap a few war stories and enjoy one another’s company.

Come Saturday, Peggles and I were driving to the reunion asking one another why the hell we had decided to go in the first place. We already knew exactly what it was going to be like – all the guy who never left Joburg crammed into one venue getting good and wasted and asking each other the same damn questions all night.

Which was pretty much exactly what happened. But strangely enough I really enjoyed it. Mostly because a lot of the guys had embarrassingly boring stories and were content to just listen to me babbling on all night about myself, which seemed to be going down really well.

 

 

What was fucking sick though was the fact that there were guys there who I literally haven’t spoken to in 10 years who not only know about this site, but read it regularly. Then there were the moments of pure win when I told one or two people that I write this site and they were like “YOU’RE SlickTiger?! Fuck bro, I LOVED that klapping gym post!”

Well, I say pure win, but obviously they hardly read the site or they would have seen the pictures I sporadically post of myself and made the connection sooner, but hey, at least I’m known for something.

Then, BEST part of the evening by far, was when a good buddy of mine walks up to me and says, “Cornelius dude, I gotta share this with you man,” (not my real name, but let’s just roll with this one…).

“So we’re having a conversation about how some of the guys here are clearly talking themselves up a little to sound more important than they are.”

“Sure,” I replied, “that’s a given, right?”

“So one of the guys turns around and is like ‘Ja, a lot of okes are doing that. I mean Cornelius is walking around telling everyone he’s SlickTiger!”

Hahahahahahahahahahahahaha! Too fucking funny I tells ya! THAT made the whole trip worth it, what a chop.

 

 

But I dunno, I’m not sure my life would have been that different had I not gone, so maybe let that be a lesson to anyone considering attending their 10 year reunion.

It’s going to be exactly the way you think it’s going to be.

Just pray when yours rolls around they stock the bar better than they did for ours – one hour in and all the tequila and Jagermeister was finished and at 1.00 on the knuckle they rang for last rounds and sent us all home.

If I could go back in time I definitely would have still gone, but not without first ingesting a LOT of acid.

Now THAT would have been a fun party Winking smile

-ST

15
Feb
11

Saturday At Sidewalk Cafe

If you don’t already know Sidewalk Cafe in Vredehoek you need to head on down there one Saturday and grab a bite because the food is incredible, the vibes are awesome and if you’re lucky enough, Dave will be your waiter and for however long you stay there, life will be about as perfect as it can be.

 

 

For us life was as perfect as it could be for about five hours. We rolled into Sidewalk at about 9.30 on Saturday morning, J-Rab, Jennyjenjen, Barbarian, Goff-girl and myself after waking up hungover as hell from our housewarming the night before and marvelling that we were all still alive.

We went to meet up with friends of Goff-Girl’s who were just finishing a scrumptious breakfast of fresh fruit juices, muesli, yoghurt, honey and tea, so naturally we all sat down and ordered a round of beers.

From there the wheels came off completely. By 10.30 we were onto the Bloody Marys and sometime around lunchtime a round of tequilas came out followed by a police van that parked in the street right next to us. We knew we had total immunity as long as we stayed put though so that’s exactly what we did and sooner or later they moved on, all of us smiling and waving at them like a bunch of asylum escapees.

 

 

It felt good not to give a shit. It felt good to spend the morning getting loaded at a ridiculously early hour with my friends while other people went jogging up the street or came to Sidewalk in their loafers to enjoy a quaint little meal and saw the chaos that was unfolding at  our table.

And all the while, Dave endured. Like some stalwart captain of a ship full of maniacs, he stood his ground because he’d seen this before many, many times and at least we added a random element into his day that he seemed to enjoy.

“I want a big flower for behind my ear,” J-Rab turned around and randomly blurted out as Dave was walking past and I swear to God, the man didn’t even flinch or look surprised or perplexed or off-guard in any conceivable way. He just said “Sure” like it was the most normal request he’d ever heard, walked over to a nearby tree and came back with the perfect flower.

 

 

It was good times I tell ya, Sidewalk Cafe gets the Tiger stamp of approval. Go there every day this week and the week after and the week after. Dig the view from the stoep outside and have a Bloody Mary or 10.

Life really doesn’t get much better than that Smile

-ST

07
Feb
11

You Gotta Love Models

So Klap Gym Boet! went into the latest FHM which now means there’s an FHM lying around our flat which I can honestly say is the first one that’s done that in about 5 years.

Naturally I find myself gravitating towards it from time to time, mostly when I’m supposed to be doing things that actually require brainpower such as writing a blog post or boiling the kettle.

Instead I veg out on the couch and flip through the pages, marvelling at how large woman’s breasts seem to have become and thanking my lucky stars that I’m a guy and don’t have to compete with those ridiculously over-airbrushed, over-sexed and under-dressed brainless sirens.

 

 

I love the ‘what qualities do you look for in a man?’ question because they always say the same fucking thing.

“Confidence and a great sense of humour are sexy. He must also not be afraid to show his sensitive side. And he must be honest. And he must have a nice six-pack. Hahahaha!”

It’s all the same shit over and over and over again!

South African models are the worst. For the most part they are so fucking boring I’d rather push a fork through my eyeball than read an interview with them.

Take this month’s cover girl Genevieve Morton for example, who answered the following questions in the following ways:

 

  • What do you find attractive in a man? Confidence and a sense of humour
  • What do you do on your days off in New York? Browse the fresh food market with hot, non-alcoholic apple cider
  • You must have had some cool jobs since we last worked together? I spend a lot of time in Dallas working for a department store
  • Do you enjoy jogging in Central Park wearing insanely tight spandex? I got totally lost one day, so haven’t spent too much time there
  • It’s a tough country to stay in shape in, how do you resist Dunkin’ Doughnuts? Actually, when I travel I never eat the nice, tasty foods… because I am scared that I will like it too much and then not to be able to stop myself
  • What exciting career projects are you looking forward to? Finishing my degree

 

And so on and so on and so on and so on.

I’m probably not the best person to gauge these things by, but seriously, what a boring interview!

 

 

The American girls interviewed at least had some pizazz, but I’m sorry, our local girls are a buncha limp noodles. They wouldn’t know a party if it crawled up their leg and blew a bong hit their doe-eyed little faces.

That Powerbalance launch I went to when I met Roxy Louw is a great example. We went to the bar after the interview and I ordered her a tequila. No, tequila was too hectic, she’d had a bad experience (hahaha! Like anyone drinks tequila and has a good experience). So I ordered her a Jagy, no she didn’t want a Jagy either. An Apple Sour? No, not that either.

She ended up doing a shot of red wine. Then her boyfriend arrived, gave her a disapproving look and marched her off to sit in a corner with him for the rest of the night.

You gotta love models because magazines and TVs and a bazillion other forms of mass media bludgeon us with their half naked bodies and perfectly sculpted faces all the time and we sit there like cartoon wolves, tongues lolling from our heads and hearts beating through our chests and then you actually get to meet them and you know what?

The baglady down the street is more interesting.

-ST

02
Feb
11

Promises Promises

So I know I said I’d post a whole buttload of pics from the Met on Saturday once I got my hands on J-Rab’s camera, but having gone through the pics she took, they were kinda ok, not really mind-blowing.

Still though, here’s a nice pic of J-Rab and I sitting on a couch / giant flower that went well with my red and black 1930’s gangster get up.

 

 

It was such an intense fucking party, seriously. And at the end of it all, the kind folks from Road Trip drove us home for free as part of the package.

Would I recommend entering every goddamn competition known to man to win tickets to the J&B main marquee for next year’s Met?

Does the pope shit in the woods? Winking smile

Oh yeah, and incidentally we did bet on the horses if you were wandering and pretty much lost everything, which is officially my excuse for the copious amounts of tequila that followed and the awesome / mildly terrifying moves I was whipping out on the dancefloor. 

Good times I tell ya, good times.

-ST

19
Apr
10

Today Was a car crash

Fahk, today was a car crash.

Didn’t see that comin’ did ya? Ol’ Slick calls the post ‘Today Was A Car Crash’ and then launches right into the opening sentence, ‘Fahk, today was a car crash’!

Hahahahaha! Um, why am I the only one laughing?

On the way to work this morning I saw two taxis all fucked up, twisted out of shape, people (dead people?) being packed into ambulances and driven to state hospitals to get nasty infections.

 

 

I drove on in the driving rain and I turned my fog lights on. I don’t know what I hoped to achieve by doing this, but it made me feel marginally more safe.

The whole day, my guts have been melting. They feel like hot coals inside me. The weekend was a harsh mistress and all I can say is thank the good lord that J-Rab was stone cold and able to get us from A to B cause I probably would have been lousy at it.

Friday night we headed out guns blazin’. Bottle of tequila on the backburner and a pile of beer you could build a fort with. We hit The Barbarian’s place first, then Da Vinci’s for the best goddamn pizza I ever tasted, then a house party with some good people, and a man, we’ll call him The Giant, who had hands that were so massive he could probably break your skull if he ever flat-handed you.

 

 

He reads this site everyday, The Giant. He said it keeps him sane on days when office life is too boring to handle. My life had a lot of purpose in that moment, and everything, everything was worth it and I guess it still is.

It was his lady’s birthday party and I arrived sprouting tequila like a leaking ship.

It’s not rocket science. If you’re going to a party where you don’t know a lot of people, take a bottle of tequila. The people that drink it, make friends with those people. The people that don’t drink it, tease them until they drink it, then make friends with those people.

No one remembers you this way. But somewhere down the line you’ll be at another random do on another random night and a person from across the room will call out, ‘Hey! You! I know you! You’re the Tequila-guy from that party that one time…’

We drove to Komemtjie after the party, we snuck into my aunt’s house, passed the hell out and slept like dead people.

Saturday my cousin, Captain Albatross, woke me with a beer and a firm pat on the shoulder. ‘Cuzzy’ he said to me, ‘come let’s talk.’

We sat on the upstairs balcony in my aunt’s old comfy blue chairs, sipping cold beer and watching the cloudshapes changing with time and he told me about his crazy night and I told him about mine.

 

 

I kicked a soccer ball with The Captain’s kids and taught them to strum a few chords on the guitar. Dylan is a natural. All of seven years old and already he can count a solid 4/4 signature. I could make a rockstar out of that kid.

We ate mountains of braaied meat and it was good. Jimmy’s marinade was the clear winner that day. We drowned everything in it, even the boerewors and fuck me it all tasted like sticky, glazed heaven. I ploughed through a lot of it and afterward I lay on the grass and didn’t do or think of much for a long time.

A few hours later, J-Rab drove us back home and I dozed like a kid in the passenger seat, waking only when we went over bumps, then gazing through half-shut eyes at the spaces where ocean and land met, those brilliant white beaches along Baden Powell, the greeny-blue ocean the sun reflecting red off the mountains.

We ate at Buena Vista that night with The Loub, a good meal, good company, good times. I kinda wished I wasn’t already half dead at that stage. Energy was hard to come by, it had been a long day.

 

 

Sunday I got up late, sat on our balcony and played my guitar for 2 hours to a rapt audience of Anatolian Sheep Dogs. The low chords made them growl and the high chords made them howl. I felt like a demon guitarist, dragged back out of hell to play auditoriums full of growling, howling animals for all eternity.

Not a bad gig come to think of it. Better than rolling a rock up a hill.

I met a man who reads this site from time to time on Sunday afternoon. We’re working on a project together, something that’s going to blow people’s fucking minds.

And that’s really where this is all leading up to.

There are things, big things, in the pipeline for this site. I’m stepping up and calling a couple of shots for once and if this works, if I can actually manage to pull this one off, you’ll be proud to stand and be counted as one of the first people that found this crazy, fucked up place.

‘Oh yeah, SlickTiger?’ you’ll say, ‘I was following his blog WAY before …………… happened. Yeah, those days he used to write differently, like he was talking to us, like it was a private conversation. We liked his stuff mainly, but sometimes he clearly had nothing to write about, so he’d just write about his own life.’

‘We enjoyed some of those posts…’

It’s happening people. It’s all coming together and I couldn’t be happier 😉

-ST

17
Feb
10

The Three Evilest Shots You’ll Ever Drink

If you’re the type of person who enjoys this blog, then I’m just gonna jump right in there, take a shot in the dark and guess that you probably don’t mind a drink from time to time.

You don’t mind a drink from time to time, you don’t mind going out with your friends and maybe doing a sneaky tequila or two, you have nothing against that. You don’t mind opening a fine bottle of wine and drinking the whole thing by yourself, that’s fine by you, and you don’t mind taking a hip flask of whisky to work everyday and taking large gulps under your desk when no one’s looking, you know, just to steady your hands a little.

 

 

We don’t judge here at Them’s Fightin’ Words, well unless you’re MTN, The Parlotones, 30 Seconds To Mars, a fascist pig, or any number of other things that irritate the shit out of me. I like drunks though, so you guys are safe.

In fact, a lot of my good friends are well accomplished drunks, and I’ve followed their drinking careers in some cases right from the first drink I forced them to down. You know where you stand with a drunk because the second they’ve had a few, THE TRUTH starts flowing like a fountain of milk and honey from their wet, booze soaked lips, usually with hilarious consequences.

Also, I love watching the body language of truly wasted people, especially when they’re trying to get some ass. Take this one friend of mine for example, we’ll just call him X, to avoid an awkward conversation later today. When he’s nice and lubed up he’ll approach his target, leaning backward at an angle of 45 degrees from the floor. Then once he’s made his approach, he’ll straighten up to a respectable 90 degree angle, occasionally wavering forward to 100 and backward to 80.

God help his target if she shows any kind of interest because then it’s balls to the wall, 135 degree forward leaning, right up there in her personal space. Now it’s her turn to lean backward at 45 degrees. It’s like some bizarre mating ritual perpetuated by two similarly charged magnets.

 

 

So anyway, I decided for today’s post I’d share a few priceless nuggets of information I gathered whilst living in Grahamstown and studying at Rhodes University, Where Leaders Learn… To Drink.

And no, I don’t know your friend’s sister Kirsty who went there to study a BSC, or your mate Rhino who was part of the surf club so let’s not even go there ok? I went to Rhodes I remember NO ONE! I leave all that remembering bullshit up to other people cause yesterday’s got nothin’ for me, pictures that I’ll always see, time just fades the pages in my book of memories.

Here are the three EVILEST shots ever invented. I sincerely hope you never have to drink any of these. Rhodes students invented these. Yeah, that bad.

 

THE MOTHERFUCKER

 

 

Not a very original name for a shot, I’ll be the first to admit that, but when you’re caught in the hazy deluge of a three-day drinking binge, these things seldom matter.

For this particularly potent assault on sobriety, you’ll need the following:

  • 1 x double shot glass
  • 1 x shot of absinthe
  • 1 x shot of stroh rum
  • 1 x draught glass
  • 1 x lighter
  • 1 x bent straw

Ok? Are you picking up what I’m laying down here? It goes like this: You pour the absinthe and stroh into the shot glass and light it. You hold the draught glass upside down over the flaming mess, catching as many fumes as possible before putting the draught glass down over the shot glass, thus neatly extinguishing said flaming mess. Carefully sneak the shot glass out from the draught glass, being careful not to let the fumes escape and SMASH the shot in your face.

Then, quick as possible, put the short end of the bent straw under the draught glass and suck the fumes in like a bong hit. I watched someone pass out instantly when doing this once, so maybe tie yourself to something first.

 

THE SAMURAI

 

 

Specially designed for the shoe-string budget drinker, this is by far the MOST FUCKED you’ll ever get on one shot. I’ve been there. I have the scars to prove it.

For this suicidally retarded foray into drunken oblivion, you’ll need the following:

  • 1 x shot of stroh rum
  • 1 x shot glass FULL of sugar
  • 1 x round slice of lemon, with rind

Can you see where this is going? I think you can see where this is going. This is going straight to shit, do not pass go, do not collect 200.

First empty the entire shot glass of sugar into your mouth. You’ll be surprised how much sugar a shot glass can hold. Swill it around a little to get it moist and then pop the entire lemon slice, rind and all into your mouth and chew it up but good.

By this stage your mouth will be so full your cheeks will be in real danger of rupturing. Now somehow get that shot of stroh in there and swallow the lot. Sit down for 15 minutes and for god’s sake, no matter how ‘fine’ you feel, DON’T drink anything else. Now stand up, walk around a little and marvel at how completely wasted you’ve just become.

Make an educated decision at this point, ask yourself ‘Can I handle any more booze?’ O’course y’can! Ffffaahk!

This will be the last thing you remember.

 

THE SACRED SHIT OF SATAN

 

 

This shot should not be drunk by ANYONE. It was invented by barmen at Champs Action Bar shortly before the place was closed down. Champs was frequented mainly by truck drivers, correctional services officers, criminals and students who were into metal and didn’t mind spending their evenings watching people fight one another with broken bottles and screwdrivers (true story).

So anyway, there is nothing cute or clever about this shot. To make it you need:

  • 1 x double shot glass
  • Bit of tequila
  • Throw in some stroh rum
  • Fuck it, why not some whisky
  • Vodka’s definitely a winner
  • Some amarula cream so it can curdle instantly
  • And why not finish that bad boy off with a healthy dollop of Tobasco sauce?

Does that sound like fun to you? I had no idea what it was when I bought it because I was already pretty hammered. The sign behind the bar said ‘Don’t be a pussy! Try The Sacred Shit Of Satan.’

‘I’m no goddam pussy!’ I slurred, ‘gimme Satan’s shit!’

Yeah. Boy did I regret that decision.

So there you have it guys, three fun ways to spend a night slurring incoherently, hitting on ugly strangers and starting fights that trust me, you’ll lose.

Hahaha! Good times I tell ya, good times 🙂

-ST