Trannies without fannies

Men don’t really know how to celebrate Women’s Day without running the risk of being called patronising or sexist. All we can do, really, is dress up as a woman and feel what it’s like to walk in their shoes for a day. Obviously I couldn’t do this on my own for fear of being set upon by hordes of unshaven brutes demanding fellatio and other mouth-watering Italian dishes.

So I called old friend Ted, who I hadn’t seen since I was let go from my previous job, and said we ought to celebrate our inner women by pretending to be them. He agreed that this was what women would want men to do on Women’s Day.

An hour later he came stomping up my driveway in a lime green chiffon cocktail dress and a pair of bloodstained army boots. I explained to him that our objective was to resemble real women and not a pair of murderous transvestites.

I picked out one of the ex-wife’s evening gowns. The bottom part swirled agreeably around my ankles but the top half clung to me like a Jehovah’s Witness. We needed a boost in the boob department or our cover would be blown. I went to get something to drink, leaving Ted browsing through what used to be the bra drawer. Women always leave bras behind. It’s a way of marking their territory. At the end, though, they leave them as a way of reminding you of what you have lost.

Unlike the male organ, women’s breasts vary in size depending on their weight, marital status and mood. “Find me a 52B,” I shouted, mixing myself a suitably girly wine spritzer with a tequila gold on the side and two beers to chase.

While Ted was developing a cleavage, I perused the internet for Women’s Day specials. I was expecting to find sites with names like Gropeon offering lavender-scented pepper spray, well-hung Malawian houseboys and coffee table books featuring lipstick lesbians in a range of tastefully lit positions.

Instead, the deal-of-the-day websites were offering designer handbags, cryolipolysis fat freeze and ultrasound cavitation (yummy!), Egyptian cotton towel sets, aromatherapy massage candles, collagen face masks, Gordon Ramsay cookware, a range of blemish-clearing devices and a portable shoe storage cabinet for only R3 600.

This is what women want on Women’s Day? I felt deflated. “Here,” said Ted, “stick these down your top.” Feeling considerably more inflated, I wiggled my fake bosom, drained my tequila and headed for the car.

“Right,” said Ted, wedging his big chiffon-coated ass into the passenger seat. “Let’s celebrate Women’s Day.”

Our first port of call was the beautician. Before going in, I fixed Ted’s wig and he fixed mine. He was a blonde, I was a redhead. Earlier, I had come across an entire drawer full of wigs. They were probably the scalps of former lovers.

Her name was Xandra, according to the name-tag on her blouse, if that’s what you call a garment so sheer you get vertigo when it comes near you. I pronounced it with a Xhosa click even though she was a very white girl. “Akshally, it’s Zandra,” she said, smiling for one-hundredth of a second.

“So you wanna wax?” she whined. “Yes please,” said Ted, “and a polish.” Ted gets his humour from Top Gear. That’s why he never gets laid. I nudged his leg to indicate that he should lower his voice by several hundred octaves. He thought I was initiating some sort of silly game that girls indulge in when they go to the beautician and I had to play along until the nudging and pinching and giggling turned into slapping and punching and swearing.

“So,” said Xandra. “Do youse want the bikini, the moustache, the landing strip, the American, the Brazilian or the Hollywood?” Ted said he wanted the Kentucky Fried Chicken but she had never heard of it so I said we’d just get our nails done instead.

She looked at my hands and shuddered. “You bite your nails?” Of course I bite my nails. How else do men keep their nails short? She said there was nothing she could do for them. The look on her face suggested there had been a death in the family.

Ted said he’d heard there was some kind of acid they offered clients. Xandra perked up and began telling him about the acid options that would rid his feet of ugly callouses. He told her he was more interested in the acid options that would rid his mind of ugly reality. She pretended to laugh and offered us a seaweed wrap which made us think of sushi so we excused ourselves and sashayed off down the road to a nearby restaurant.

Sitting on the veranda guzzling aperitifs – if double brandies and Coke qualify as aperitifs – it soon became apparent that gentlemen of no discernible breeding were giving us the venereal eye and making remarks that fluctuated between the utterly misogynistic and the abysmally moronic.

Ted began acting like a total slut. He batted his ridiculous little man eyelashes, flashed a slab of hairy thigh and did something revolting with his tongue.

“WTF?” I said to him. While continuing to flirt with what looked like a meeting of the Boeremag’s dog squad, Ted explained that he was paying the ultimate homage to women on Women’s Day. Women, he said, wielded the most incredible power. He said he could feel it pumping through his veins like molten lava. I reminded him that he wasn’t a woman and that it was most likely the Klipdrift in his veins, but he was having none of it.

He stood up, flicked his wig, fluffed his dress, puckered his scrawny lips and said: “Fuck you all, you bunch of ignorant cock-sucking losers.” Then he took my hand and we flounced right out of there.

It felt so liberating to treat men like the filth they are, without any risk of getting my head kicked in, that I may well have a sex change.

Sex ‘n drugs ‘n frock ‘n roll

I am a feminist at heart and wouldn’t claim to be anything else, so I called Ted and said we ought to celebrate our inner women by pretending to be women, which is what I expect women would want men to do on Women’s Day.

Ted thought it was a fabulous idea and half an hour later came flouncing up my driveway wearing a purple chiffon cocktail dress and a pair of bloodstained army boots. I explained to him that the objective was to pretend to be real women and not a pair of murderous transvestites.

I picked out one of the Bad Yellow-Eyed Woman’s evening gowns. The hemline swirled about my knees in a most alluring fashion, which is more than can be said for the top half which just kind of hung around like a Jehovah’s Witness.

I told Ted we needed a boost in the boob department or our cover would be blown. I left him browsing through her bra drawer. Unlike the male organ, women’s breasts vary in size depending on their weight, marital status and mood.

“Find me a 52B,” I shouted, mixing myself a suitably girly wine spritzer with a shot of tequila gold on the side and two beers to chase.

While Ted was developing a cleavage I perused the internet to see what Women’s Day specials were being offered. I was expecting to find lavender-scented pepper spray, Rasta masseurs from Gambia and coffee table books featuring lipstick lesbians in a range of tastefully lit positions.

Instead, the deal-of-the-day websites were offering designer handbags, sunglasses, dinners in aid of breast cancer, cryolipolysis fat freeze and ultrasound cavitation (yummy!), Egyptian cotton towel sets, aromatherapy massage candles, collagen face masks, Gordon Ramsay cookware, a range of blemish-clearing devices and a shoe storage cabinet for only R3 600.

Really? This is what women want on Women’s Day? I felt deflated. “Here,” said Ted, “stick these down your top.” Feeling a bit more inflated, I wiggled my faux bosom, drained my tequila and headed for the car.

“Right,” said Ted, wedging his giant chiffon-coated arse into the passenger seat. “Let’s celebrate Women’s Day.”

Our first port of call was the beautician. I fixed Ted’s wig and he fixed mine. He was a blonde, I was a redhead. I had found a drawer full of wigs at home. Probably from the days when the Bad Yellow-Eyed Woman was stalking medical students instead of focusing on her studies. We still joke about the unmarked graves of those who refused her advances, except in her case it’s not so much a joke as it is a confession.

Her name was Xandra. That’s what it said on the name-tag on her blouse, if that’s what you call a garment so sheer you get vertigo every time it comes near you. I pronounced it with a Xhosa click even though she was a very white girl. “It’s pronounced Zandra,” she said, smiling for one-hundredth of a second.

“So you want a wax?” she said. “Yes please,” said Ted, “and a polish.” Ted gets his humour from Top Gear. That’s why he never gets laid. I nudged his leg to indicate that he should lower his voice by several hundred octaves. He thought I was initiating some sort of silly game that girls indulge in when they go to the beautician and I had to play along until the nudging and pinching and giggling turned into slapping and punching and cursing.

“So,” said Xandra. “Do youse want the bikini, the moustache, the landing strip, the American, the Brazilian or the Hollywood?”

Ted said he wanted the Kentucky Fried Chicken but she had never heard of it before and nor had I so I said we’d just get our nails done instead.

She looked at my hands and shuddered. “Do you bite your nails?” she asked. Of course I bite my nails. How else do men keep their nails short? She said there was nothing she could do for them. Ted said he had heard there was some kind of acid that they offered clients. Xandra perked up and began telling him about the acid options that would rid his feet of callouses. He told her he was more interested in the acid options that would rid his mind of reality.

She ignored him and offered me a seaweed wrap which made us think of sushi so we headed back to the car where I changed into a little red skirt, fishnet stockings and high heels. Ted asked what I thought I was doing.

“Can’t a girl look nice on Women’s Day?” I said, pretending to scratch his eyes out without bothering with the pretending part. Screaming and clutching his eyeballs, he shouted that  I deserved everything I got if I went out looking like a low-rent whore.

“That’s the spirit,” I said, sashaying off down the road to a nearby sushi bar that didn’t sell sushi. Within the space of 100m, we were whistled at, hit on and propositioned nine times. It seemed so wrong to turn down all these offers of sex, and yet we had to. As women, it was expected of us. Inexplicable, really.

Sitting on the verandah sucking upon our aperitifs – if one can call double brandies and coke an aperitif – it soon became apparent that gentlemen were giving us the venereal eye and making remarks that fluctuated between the misogynistic and the moronic.

Ted began acting like a complete slut. He batted his stupid little man eyelashes, flashed a slab of flabby thigh and did something revolting with his tongue.

“What the hell are you doing?” I hissed. While continuing to flirt with what looked and sounded like a meeting of the Boeremag’s technical division (Krugersdorp branch), Ted explained that he was paying the ultimate homage to women on Women’s Day. Women, he said, wielded the most incredible power. He said he could feel it pumping through his veins like molten lava. I reminded him that he wasn’t actually a woman and that it was most likely the brandy and not lava at all, but he was having none of it.

He stood up, flicked his wig, smoothed his cocktail dress, puckered his lips and said, “Fuck you all, you bunch of ignorant cock-sucking losers.” Then he took my hand and we flounced right out of there.

It felt so liberating to treat men like the filth they are without any risk of getting my head kicked in that I may well have a sex change.

Hookerben

Women’s Month – Next year will be better

I was trying to figure out why the people who bring out this particular magazine had specifically chosen the August edition to pay tribute to women. Then I remembered. Both the publisher and the editor are men. And this is winter. What better way to get a little credit in the love bank than by devoting an entire issue to women?

“Look, honey,” said the editor. “I have given your kind their very own edition. Now take your top off, drizzle honey over your magnificent breasts and come here.”

I was sharing my insight with the Bad Yellow-Eyed Woman when she turned on me without warning and wooden spooned me in the solar plexus. Using language unbefitting a toilet-trained person, she pointed out that since August was Women’s Month, it was far more likely that the magazine’s management was simply in step with the rest of the non-Neanderthal world.

I sloped off into the garden, knuckles dragging on the floor, to lick my wounds and plot my revenge. It wasn’t long before I became distracted by a six-pack of beer hidden behind the bougainvillea for use in times of emergency. I abandoned my nefarious scheming on the grounds that drinking would accomplish better results and also because women generally suffer enough, what with period pains, childbirth, skewed logic, the inability to tolerate criticism and so on.

Instead I came up with my own programme of events to celebrate Women’s Month in 2017. There will be none of the cultural performances, poetry readings and workshops that make this such a dreary month.

Here are some of the activities that will take place next year.

Week 1

  • Catholic women will dress up as priests and take charge of church services around the world without risk of assassination by the Vatican’s holy hitmen. Priests will be expected to dress as nuns and sit quietly at the back with their legs crossed.
  • Married women get the week off to relax in bed without once being coerced into having sex.
  • All cooking, cleaning and child-related chores are delegated to the husband/boyfriend (or the proxy of his choice) for the duration of the week.

Week 2

  • Women are given the freedom of the cities enabling them to visit bars and clubs on their own, in pairs or in packs and hit on men as and when they see fit without fear of picking up a nasty label. When they return home in the early hours of the morning, they are entitled to slap, punch or kick their men no more than three times with the understanding that there will be no hard feelings the next day.
  • Women get to sexually harass their male bosses without fear of retribution. If the idea of fondling the CEO’s bum simply doesn’t bear thinking about, employers can instead be spoken to in sarcastic, disdainful, patronising and/or imperious tones.
  • A cosmetics, body maintenance and diet-free week. Women may look as dirty, plain and unattractive as they wish without being publicly denigrated or denied entry to their homes or places of work.

Week 3

  • The Women’s Grand Prix takes place at Kyalami. Classes will be according to colour and not engine size. In other words, red cars versus red cars, silver cars versus silver cars and so on. Categories will include Most Vulgar Hand Signal, Least Concern for Other Drivers and Fastest Lap Combined With Best Application of Makeup.
  • Women get to play with the army and navy’s new toys. They may also stage their own war games in False Bay with the understanding that the firing of live shells at Fish Hoek is encouraged.
  • Each married woman receives a Get Out Of Trouble card to be used if and when she gets caught having an affair.

Week 4

  • An expropriation from the defence budget frees up enough money to give every South African woman a hair appointment courtesy of the state.
  • MaKhumalo takes the reigns from hubby Jacob for a day. She gets to chair a Cabinet meeting attended only by the ministers’ wives. None of the female ministers will be allowed to attend since they already know what power tastes like. During the meeting, the ‘ministers’ will be empowered to make any decisions that take their fancy. Should they, for example, adopt a motion to redecorate parliament or invade Zimbabwe, operational costs will be borne by the taxpayer.
  • Free yoga sessions or military training from the Chinese.

 

 

 

Trannies without fannies

Men don’t really know how to celebrate Women’s Day without running the risk of being called patronising or sexist. All we can do, really, is dress up as a woman and feel what it’s like to walk in their shoes for a day. Obviously I couldn’t do this on my own for fear of being set upon by hordes of unshaven brutes demanding fellatio and other mouth-watering Italian dishes.

So I called old friend Ted, who I hadn’t seen since I was let go from my previous job, and said we ought to celebrate our inner women by pretending to be them. He agreed that this was what women would want men to do on Women’s Day.

An hour later he came stomping up my driveway in a lime green chiffon cocktail dress and a pair of bloodstained army boots. I explained to him that our objective was to resemble real women and not a pair of murderous transvestites.

I picked out one of the ex-wife’s evening gowns. The bottom part swirled agreeably around my ankles but the top half clung to me like a Jehovah’s Witness. We needed a boost in the boob department or our cover would be blown. I went to get something to drink, leaving Ted browsing through what used to be the bra drawer. Women always leave bras behind. It’s a way of marking their territory. At the end, though, they leave them as a way of reminding you of what you have lost.

Unlike the male organ, women’s breasts vary in size depending on their weight, marital status and mood. “Find me a 52B,” I shouted, mixing myself a suitably girly wine spritzer with a tequila gold on the side and two beers to chase.

While Ted was developing a cleavage, I perused the internet for Women’s Day specials. I was expecting to find sites with names like Gropeon offering lavender-scented pepper spray, well-hung Malawian houseboys and coffee table books featuring lipstick lesbians in a range of tastefully lit positions.

Instead, the deal-of-the-day websites were offering designer handbags, cryolipolysis fat freeze and ultrasound cavitation (yummy!), Egyptian cotton towel sets, aromatherapy massage candles, collagen face masks, Gordon Ramsay cookware, a range of blemish-clearing devices and a portable shoe storage cabinet for only R3 600.

This is what women want on Women’s Day? I felt deflated. “Here,” said Ted, “stick these down your top.” Feeling considerably more inflated, I wiggled my fake bosom, drained my tequila and headed for the car.

“Right,” said Ted, wedging his big chiffon-coated ass into the passenger seat. “Let’s celebrate Women’s Day.”

Our first port of call was the beautician. Before going in, I fixed Ted’s wig and he fixed mine. He was a blonde, I was a redhead. Earlier, I had come across an entire drawer full of wigs. They were probably the scalps of former lovers.

Her name was Xandra, according to the name-tag on her blouse, if that’s what you call a garment so sheer you get vertigo when it comes near you. I pronounced it with a Xhosa click even though she was a very white girl. “Akshally, it’s Zandra,” she said, smiling for one-hundredth of a second.

“So you wanna wax?” she whined. “Yes please,” said Ted, “and a polish.” Ted gets his humour from Top Gear. That’s why he never gets laid. I nudged his leg to indicate that he should lower his voice by several hundred octaves. He thought I was initiating some sort of silly game that girls indulge in when they go to the beautician and I had to play along until the nudging and pinching and giggling turned into slapping and punching and swearing.

“So,” said Xandra. “Do youse want the bikini, the moustache, the landing strip, the American, the Brazilian or the Hollywood?” Ted said he wanted the Kentucky Fried Chicken but she had never heard of it so I said we’d just get our nails done instead.

She looked at my hands and shuddered. “You bite your nails?” Of course I bite my nails. How else do men keep their nails short? She said there was nothing she could do for them. The look on her face suggested there had been a death in the family.

Ted said he’d heard there was some kind of acid they offered clients. Xandra perked up and began telling him about the acid options that would rid his feet of ugly callouses. He told her he was more interested in the acid options that would rid his mind of ugly reality. She pretended to laugh and offered us a seaweed wrap which made us think of sushi so we excused ourselves and sashayed off down the road to a nearby restaurant.

Sitting on the veranda guzzling aperitifs – if double brandies and Coke qualify as aperitifs – it soon became apparent that gentlemen of no discernible breeding were giving us the venereal eye and making remarks that fluctuated between the utterly misogynistic and the abysmally moronic.

Ted began acting like a total slut. He batted his ridiculous little man eyelashes, flashed a slab of hairy thigh and did something revolting with his tongue.

“WTF?” I said to him. While continuing to flirt with what looked like a meeting of the Boeremag’s dog squad, Ted explained that he was paying the ultimate homage to women on Women’s Day. Women, he said, wielded the most incredible power. He said he could feel it pumping through his veins like molten lava. I reminded him that he wasn’t a woman and that it was most likely the Klipdrift in his veins, but he was having none of it.

He stood up, flicked his wig, fluffed his dress, puckered his scrawny lips and said: “Fuck you all, you bunch of ignorant cock-sucking losers.” Then he took my hand and we flounced right out of there.

It felt so liberating to treat men like the filth they are, without any risk of getting my head kicked in, that I may well have a sex change.