Saturday, January 14, 2017

A Mosquito On The Wall

A short trip down Rhodesian Memories of a one way street.

(Presuming, of course, that a spot of course language might activate some inebriated brain cells enough to shout ‘Admin, admin – ban the devil’s spawn from this cyber site, etc, etc. Yawn.)

So – where was I? I forgot what I wanted to tell you about this particular mosquito besides the fact I sprayed it with hair lack and I will chisel it off tomorrow.

Instead, I have another yarn to spin.

It was by chance that whilst passing a chair at the Red Cross Second Hand furniture shop, that its colour of dirty light brown, made me think of those chairs we sat on in days long by at school.
I needed to take a closer look. And to my delight, my artistic eye for detail discovered ‘life’ in, on and under that chair. A time capsule of buttocks that once fitted neatly -  but at our age would now overflow.
Now, as you read this, it will trigger something in your head, a cloud will disappear and you will be able to see the chair – for, what is the big deal about this old school chair?
Not a lot. Really? Work out how long you sat on them, young and itching with desire to do anything but sit on that chair.
Ah, the visible part. The front of the back support - now covered in grease and grime and ink stained fingerprints, but only at the top. Further down, decades of shifty bottoms kept it clean.

Ah, see – the stains are all around the rim, except at the front where legs dangled over.
Oh. Holes. There has to be holes. Usually dug with the point of a compass - amazing concentration of destruction. Dig through the veneer and expose the chipboard.  And how it soaked up the ink from a fountain pen cartridge!
Spin the chair upside down. The underside of the seat tells a filthy story. Lumps of ‘bogeys’, hard, faded green and mixed with strange black lumps. Snail trails long gone, a few curling flakes - all that is there to show the long one someone dragged for at least 15 centimeters before it finally, and reluctantly, left its owners fingernail.

Then, but of course – the chewing gum. A marvel of nature (not). Lumps of them. Harder than Trinipon 13. Masticated till nothing more than chewing on a lumps of plastic. Juiceless and tasteless. What went in the mouth full of deadly toxic chemical colours and enough sugar to rot its way through a moles molars (all digested), now becomes a putty for a chair.

The remnants, still bearing the owners final bite, now nothing more than an ugly lump, suspended in time, upside down on the bottom of a school chair.
But amongst this mess, in layers upon layers of time – there are secrets. Pencil faded, biro also, but some felt pen words of knowledge still to be deciphered.

‘Tim Bell is a morph’, ‘I love Mr Watson’ (of course we do not know if this was written by a male or a female pupil), and more – some too profound to let you read, for I must think of your sensitive souls.

But to end this yarn of true spin –

Look carefully at the back legs. The ends, with rusty flakes pushing through the plastic caps. Withered and worn through. But where they meet, under your bum, there are serious cracks. Yes – the true school chair – the rocker. Ah – those delights of swinging on the back legs, feeling cool – till they snapped off.

Karl Greenberg is the author of the cult classic books  Last of the Rhodesians -
The Gokwe Kid and Simply the Pest.

Sunday, January 08, 2017

Chain Mail

Chain Mail

A satirical look at people’s stupidity on social media.

There are many versions of this phenomenon – but there is one underlying theme to them all – fucking idiots.

Let me explain.

How many times have you received requests to forward some shite that will bring you happiness, cure your cancer, bring joy and happiness to you and your family etc, etc?

Oddly – none claim to pay your internet bills, but there was a time that you could win a million dollars by passing on a Windows scam.

Also – have you noticed there is always the whip and carrot psychology?

It makes me laugh – no, really. I mean it. I didn’t study the brain set of idiots for free you know. Actually it cost the UK tax payer over 20k, but that is their problem – not mine.

It works like this – Blah –blah blah, and more blah blah blah blah about some crap AND then – the whip -


Your innards will be riddled by worms, your children will die at the age of 12 with dementia, your vagina will dry up and drop off and your penis will catch leprosy.

If you pass this on – you will be able to read it and pass it on because you are too stupid to think for yourself. You will smile and be happy.

Brilliant hey! Meanwhile, back in the real world…

The kids are no longer at home (you hope), and you have nothing better to do than sit comatose in front of a LED screen, read some postings of utter bullshit, click ‘like’ between a glass of wine/beer or twelve and THEN -

a Chain mail. How lucky can you be? Salvation. You are one click away from being cured from cancer, winning the lottery and saving dolphins from being eaten by the Japanese.

I rest my case. If you do not pass this on – your brains will implode with frustration – but IF you pass this on. Ahh, you will have reached the heights of understanding ‘The Gokwe Kid’. For that is heaven and hell in disguise.

Friday, January 06, 2017



Suffering terribly, my part time job at Costas Crap Coffee shop lasted 15 minutes.

Misunderstanding the order for a large cuppochina, I crapped in a cup , came on the top for the cream topping and the customer moaned.

I didn’t even get a tip as I was tipped out the shitty joint. I am suing the shit heads for quarter of an hour of pay = one cup of crap.

Thursday, January 05, 2017

The greatest tenderized game on Tennis twist – ever : Part 2

Tennis Twist   Part Two.
With the chicken now hanging down, trussed like a chicken – I gave it a whack with the half strung, stringed tennis racket. Backhand.

It, the chicken, was a bit surprised and flapped something of velocity veracity, whilst making a hell of a cackling din about not wanting to be dinner.

Steph countered with a fab forehand.

And so it went on for a good five minutes. Forehand against backhand - till we were knee deep in feathers. I called time for a break and we supped on Coca-Cola.

The chicken  still flapped a bit on the end of the chord. It sort of cackled quietly – as if it awaited its fate of crispy skin.

Phineus inspected our work -

‘Very good Karl, but it still has its head and guts. How do you propose to sort that problem out?’

I looked at Steph, she looked at me.

‘Phineus , have you a machete and a knobkerrie stashed away for that time, come the revolution, when you and your half tamed savages decide to hack us whiteys to death and bludgeon the brains out of our children. If so, can I borrow them for a moment to sort out this dinner?`

‘Ahh, little white Bwana Karl. But of course. But be careful, the machete is very sharp.

Ì handed the knobkerrie to Stephie.

‘Steph, whack it counter clockwise. Keep smashing it, till it is in full swing. When it reaches parallel to the earth, I will disengage its head, and then you whack it again and I will disembowel it.’

And so it was such, and covered in blood, intestines and giblets, I presented Phineus with the most tenderized chicken of all time. I had to go home.

As I left, a strange thing occurred. Phineus followed me to the garden gate and as I mounted my bicycle, he said -

‘Karl, come the revolution, I know that you will fight. You will not die. I have sent out the word – for you are blessed as the ‘Penga One’ . It is not allowed in our culture to hurt such a person.’

Having not a clue what the half baked savage was on about, I went home.

Of course – now with hindsight – it was the beginning of the Legendary Gokwe Kid.

Karl Greenberg

BA (Hons) Open (Open)

Dip LCW (Open)
Cert Hum (Open)
Author of the cult classics – Last of the Rhodesians - Chronicles of an African Anarchist
The Gokwe Kid and Simply the Pest
(Available worldwide on Amazon)

Wednesday, January 04, 2017

The greatest tenderized game on Tennis twist – ever (Part 1)

The greatest tenderized game on Tennis twist – ever (Part 1)

Rhodesia – about early ‘70s.

As those who have read my masterpieces will know my best friend was a girl named Stephanie. Stephie for short.

Her place was mega cool. The family had bottles of cool Coca Cola in the fridge for free and I helped myself without a hint of guilt.

In the garden was a Tennis Twist. This is sort of a long stick mounted in the ground, with a giant car spring on the top of it. Attached to that was a piece of strong nylon cord almost as long as the stick.
On the end of that was a pierced tennis ball which the cord went through and then tied in a seriously large knot. (You got the picture?)

BUT – as usual with anything I participate in, problems always arose.

Not sure, but but the idea was Steph and I would stand opposite each other and whack the ball with a cricket bat or a baseball bat, a lump of wood, a steel pipe, or occasionally a tennis racket with half its strings missing (sanctions).

I  think the idea was to whack it in such a way the winner was the one who either wrapped the cord around the pole or, the whole Heath Robinson flew off the spring into orbit.

This was great fun. Except – after a while of being beaten, the tennis ball would be sliced in half by the cord – what a balls up! The two halves would sail over the fence and eagerly snatched up by the begging, starving black children outside the 2500 volt electrified fence and used as drinking cups.

After using up a couple of thousands tennis balls, we were down to the last 10 when I had an idea. (Oh-oh – this can only be bad news.)

‘Stephie, if we put the ball in a nylon stocking from your mom, tie it to the end of the cord, we can smash the fucker for ever.’

She agreed. Unforunately…

After about half a dozen poundings, whilst agreeing this was a great idea, the ball burst through the sole and went into orbit. Game over.
Stephie quickly stuffed the stocking back in the draw and hoped her mother would not notice the damage.

Well, that was that.

‘Shall we go and watch the washing machine again?’
‘Ah com’on Steph, we have watched it wash and spin twice now this week. That is now boring.’

My eyes wandered over their garden. They had chickens and bantams running free awaiting their fate of dinner, but not theirs.

‘Stephie, what has your mum planned for dinner?’
‘Dunno, ask Phineas.’

I wandered into the kitchen where Phineas, the ‘Cookboy’ was pretending to be busy by pushing some pots and pans around in a foamy sink of water.

Despite the fact that Phineas was old enough to be my grandfather, he was still a boy because his English was not that good. I had not a clue what they gabbled between themselves in their own race. More than likely - planning a revolution.

‘Phineas, wat yoo cookie dee dins-dins foor Madam tonite?’

I liked Phineas. He called me by my first name instead of ‘Sah’.

‘Karl, dee Madam, has ordered that I make a roast chicken from our free range ones in the garden. I have prepared all the vegetables and I have one tied up on its feet. I will behead it, gut it, pluck its feathers, let it hang for an hour to drain the blood, stuff it with sage and onion with a delicate mix of fresh lemon and orange peel with a touch of cinnamon and ‘
Herbes de Provence’. A perfect  Un poulet rôti parfait’.’

That is the problème. I hardly understood  a bloody word. When will these half tamed savages learn to speak the ‘Ian Smith’ ?

give me the chicken. I will return it perfect to pop in the oven – and that is an order.’  Of course, he naturally complied.

Thursday, December 29, 2016

Fucked to Death

As requested by a FB TGK fan, an S and M story. Part One.

Some clarification -
I am not into this sort of thing at all. I write satire and make people laugh.

So – I thought about this a lot. All 30 seconds, and decided to write a sketch that hopefully will turn your stomach and if you get to end – who is the sickest of us all? You who read it, or I who wrote it?

Perhaps – both, for the fascination for horror, ‘schadenfreude’, and the general misery of the runts of this planet, makes you laugh because most of it is their own fault - runs deep in the psyche of the human being.

I used several real examples along with some rather extreme perverse writings I have read to create this -

A title? How about – Fucked to Death -

It was time. Hah – The Yorkshire Ripper had nothing on me. I never did clock the dumb clown. Murdering away but he never really got his rocks off. Waste of a hammer.

Of course, I had a plan. No big deal. The country side is littered with the rotting bones of the unwanted. I can proudly say about 34 recyclable bin bags of ‘fertilizer’ have contributed to some serious spring flowering of daises. I must laugh. The police? What a joke. Someone missing? They have been missing from society so long – the
bureaucrats still send them payments every month.

That is how I live. I have a job. That you will see, but part time, - for making a screaming bitch chant her PIN number whilst I shove a children’s shovel up her shithole (such fun shoveling the shit out of them – especially when you dislodge the intestines) – ahh, that brings in plenty of coin.

But I digress. The latest stinking cunt I hunted was the best. I knew where to get her. I had spotted her with the other drunken low life in the underpass of Münchner Freiheit underground station. That’s where they hang out. I do feel sorry for the dogs though. Still, the bums have a great life. Just laugh, drink and drink, fuck in the open – humping humps of rags, some with their dogs.

Security ignores them; the public walk a wide berth. Me?  I pass the occasional one holding out  a beggar’s hand. Mumbling about starving and I give him a quick kick in the jaw. That shuts him up and stops him chewing on his dog’s knob for a while.

(So – that ends Part One – I hope you DO not look forward to the next bit. But I know you will. The thing is – how many dare to ’like’ or comment?

Part Two
The plan. You always need a plan unless planning for  Brexit….