Okay, now I'm done with this tale of whimsy. Let’s get down
to the dirty, rotten facts. Oppikoppi is a filthy, heathen gathering where
filthy heathen adventurers squat amongst the thorns and spend four days in
constant worship of the devil drink and his music.
Fuck, sorry I've gone off on a tangent again. My brain is
still three parts dust and one part lingering regret for all that was imbibed,
so you shall have to forgive its bewilderment. Anyway a lot of shit happened
out near Northam – some of it fucking awesome, some of it fucking, well, shit
to be honest. But almost all of it was fucking hilarious. Four days of
tasteless jokes and tasteless humans will do that.
Shit we saw
A man wearing a buff. As a skirt. We also saw his penis.
Morning game drive on the neighbouring game farm doing some
game viewing of us, like the pack of animals we are.
So many fucking onsies my eyes are still bleeding. Except
for the Goldfish – that shit is acceptable.
Chest pelts shaved into attire – ties, bikinis, abominations
of all kinds.
Probably your vagina too – babes, shorts can be more than
just a suggestion.
Shit we overheard
On lovemaking: The only thing in this tent that isn't wet is
me.
On hooking up: I’ll deny this ever happened and pretend
we've never met.
On waking up: Let’s not turn this rape into a murder.
On making new friends: Guy: Are you a stalker?
Girl: I'm going to fax your skin to your
mother.
On the morning after: Girl: Do you hand out the morning
after pill?
Red
Frog: Will some tea help?
Guy:
I woke up in a tent. I'm covered in vomit. Will you wash it off?
Red
Frog: Ummm….
On not being very smart: Girl: It’s so much warmer here.
Greg: It’s the fire.
On reading the mood: Guitar Hero: Should I get my guitar?
Me: No.
Shit we learned
Vodka slushies are the be all and end all of everything.
Always.
It is a lot easier sneaking into the Band Camp than it is trying
to get out of it.
A watering can is just as good as any shower and you don’t
have to wait in a queue.
A shot of vodka and a hug can turn sworn enemies into
friends.
And the best way to keep a secret is in plain sight.
Shit we loved
Each and every goddamn sunset.
Lying in the shade as Hugh Masekela sang Sarie Marais.
Singing Blue Eyes along with Springbok Nude Girls
Watching Fridge Poetry jamming
Lobster Tits with Some Grow Young
 |
| Fridge Poetry |
So if my liver was ready to accept alcohol again I’d raise
my tequila red bull to the cunts I camped with, the cunts I laughed and danced
and fell over with. Until next year: In dust we trust.
