Join the new world

Chalize, Lize and African Flize

Ed. Note: Our hedonistic hero continues his South African adventures…sadly, without a quality pith helmet.

As I sit here in this only somewhat-trendy Cape Town nightclub sipping medium-grade scotch while surrounded by only slightly gorgeous models, I find myself disillusioned. No, not by the club's trendiness (I make wherever I am THE place to be, after all) or the quality of the scotch (it was comped when I casually mentioned/possibly misstated that I'm a restaurant critic) or even the attractiveness of the clientele (who are sexy in a Victoria's Secret model kind-of-way, if you're into such things.) No, what has me melancholy is this: it turns out that everything I've ever leaned about Africa is complete orangutan offal. Elephant excrement. Crocodile ca-ca.

I've been in South Africa for three days now, and have yet to see a single pyramid. Nowhere is to be seen Sally Struthers, much less the malnourished fly-covered children she always seems to be hanging around with. Not once has a coup flared up, no charming monkey in a cute little fez has befriended me, and for the life of me I can't find a decent pith helmet to wear on my expedition in search of Tarzan. As a seasoned world traveler, however, I am accustomed to the attractions not measuring up to the brochures and/or my hazy, cartoon-based education on foreign lands. What I wasn't prepared for, however, was this inescapable truism:

South Africans are liars. Yes, every single one of them has a duplicitous heart of darkness. Don't believe me? Consider the following slanderous allegations made by some alleged citizens regarding native goddess Charlize Theron, overheard at what was apparently a Johannesburg pub favored by pathological liars.

A clearly-blind Erdwurm remarked, "Well you can have Charlize. There are way hotter woman in SA that actually speak with a South African accent." To this his equally delusional (and probably drunk) associate Landimer slurred, "I'm very much in agreement with Erdwurm. Charlize is ok but there is LOTS of far hotter girls here." While I might be agreeable to chalking such nonsense up to the failings of South Africa's educational system, I began to suspect that these two xenophobes were attempting to thwart the US-SA bond that would be forged by my intended meeting/date/sexual shenanigans with Ms. Theron. My suspicions were confirmed by the duo's co-conspirator Luc Praetor, who spun this yarn: "Theron is in a very serious relationship, and is not the typical Hollywood actress. She actually takes commitments seriously."

Yeah, right, Mr. Praetor (if that is your real name.) Nice try, sir, but it'll take a little more than your fairy tales to keep me from my little South African sex kitten. Broken by my withering logic, Luc ultimately remarked that he knew Charlize's address, and pointed me in the right direction. Triumphant, I awaited the next camel that I'd been taught were common to these parts to transport me to my destiny.

Seven hours of walking later I arrived at the Theron (and no doubt soon-to-be the next Mrs. Object) residence. After convincing the bodyguard at the door that I was Brad Pitt (with whom I'm constantly confused,) and applying copious amounts of Body Axe's new irresistible rhinoceros pheromone scent I rang the doorbell. While I expected a butler or maid or perhaps (ohpleaseohpleaseohplease) Charlize's sexually-liberated twin sister might answer the door, I never expected what greeted me clad only in a smoking jacket and a air of royalty.

"Ah, I've been expecting you," said Ajay Bruno nonchalantly. "Are you ready for our interview?"

Stay tuned, faithful readers, for Rex Object's (and his blue Penguin Bowling Balls') interview with Ajay Bruno, coming in the next issue. Subscribe, and experience the magic!