Penaltykiller K(r)ul

We all know what he did and we were all inspired. The guy in this clip might have overdone it just a little bit…


Act Jealous, Press Pause

“It got a bit boring in the bedroom, though.”, they would continue their overly honest monologue. This last remark not being a knife in the back, but…



When I was homeless I lived without my own remote for months in a row. That might sound stupid to you (and it is) but before I lost my house, my television screen had been one of my closest friends for a long time.

To overcome my growing ‘no remote/control-itch’ I decided to do some downloading, I still had my own laptop. Since I hadn’t a clue on what to choose I asked my best friend for her favourites, and the password to her wifi… I could stay at her place

Anyways… Weeks, in which I overwhelmed my friend with overenthusiastic reviews on movies she’d seen ages ago, went by. Then I finally got to enjoy her couch the way God had intended. She went away for a while and I could stay in her house. The fridge-sized television she left me with would even bring me the good stuff digitally, she said: ‘But I had no idea what that meant.’

I must admit, those first few clicks with a remote of ‘my own’ were a little awkward. But right after a German slagerfestival and a French Nescafe commercial I discovered her movie channel, so I could finally, really settle down. The Descendants had just started and after googling I found out that George Clooney had almost won an Oscar for his role in this particular flick.

Since I’m not that into slagermusic or French commercials, I decided to give that movie a chance and soon discovered it was a ‘not so funny and slightly pretentious rom-com disguised as a drama. George’s almost award winning performance in The Descendants reminded me of his perfomance in Syriana one of my friends favourites for which George did win an Oscar.

In Syriana George plays a not particularly fit looking secret agent that hardly moves a muscle while someone is pulling out his nails. The motion picture I just saw had Clooney playing a not so fit looking father who hardly moves a muscle after hearing someone else had frequently fucked his wife.. in their bed.

Getting up from my temporary TV-throne (which was easier said..) I grabbed my laptop and started googling. There was something utterly wrong here. I found out that Syriana scored a 7 with about 80,000 votes @IMDB. The descendants was awarded a 7.5 from 145,000 viewers. The first flick got Clooney an Oscar and the second one almost.

Then I googled Ocean’s Eleven which scored a 7.8 coming from 300,000 people. Even though the latter was a star packed movie in which Clooney may not have played the obvious main character, it didn’t even get him a nomination from the 6,000 @The Academy. Why was that? What made George a better actor in the previously mentioned movies and what made those roles so hard to play, hence award nomination material?

I know George isn’t known for looking timid or out of shape, au contraire. Whenever you see him, apart from those earlier mentioned (belly)roles, George always seems to breath ‘Sexy’ and I’m willing to bet that his left eyebrow is hotter than the entire cast of the Muppets, miss Piggy excluded.

Now, if that’s the real Clooney it would make his roles in Syriana and The Descendants enormously challenging. That’s like asking Berlusconi to act innocent or David Hasselhof to act as Berlusconi. But I know that’s not George.

Based on nothing but my brilliance (and juvenile jealousy) I am pretty sure that all of George’s former, not so steady, girlfriends talk about him as being a friendly, easy-going, pet loving boyfriend. The kind you would instantly like.

I couldn’t wait to take him home!” They’d say. “Not just to fuck his brains out, but also to show my folks that I’d found the perfect provider.” They would probably follow this statement by a long pause, a small sigh and a blush.

It got a bit boring in the bedroom, though.” they would continue their overly honest monologue, this last remark not being a knife in the back, a substitute for a sex-tape, but the desperate cry of a woman looking for redemption. A female feeling free to react to the BOOH’s of her husband’s fans after their inevitable break-up. Someone who could finally talk about the dryness of her vagina…

Bottom-line; George played himself in Syriana and The Descendants, acted his heart out in Oceans Eleven and should get a damn Oscar for every friggin’ Nescafé commercial that has half of France clinging to their couches.

A proper job

Do you want your website to get pornlike traffic? Do you want your pockets fatter? Hire me and I’ll bring you to the light…


Burning everything containing nudity, lentils, not allowing sex before being wed, dried prunes, having a banner checking your age, acai-juice, disallowing boys to show their penis while taking a shower, spit from monkeys that eat their own seamen, we’ve tried it all. We’ve literally tried everything, yet nothing seemed to save us from pornography and belly fat. We only grew bigger and more obsessed.

Not anymore!” say David and The Wizard. While the former, British Prime minister David Cameron, is talking about a miracle wall that will make the British internet porn free, Dr. Oz promotes green coffee as the miracle substance that will make everybody fat free. Both are full of it and I’ll tell you why.

Thinking that more than one percent of people, including our dot-com-kids, accidentally stumble upon pornography, is somewhat naïve. Thinking that by ‘blocking’ porn the other 99 percent won’t be able to find it anymore, is nothing short of stupid. For example: I was one day late in discovering my normal route to The Pirate Bay was legitimately blocked. When I did, 28 alternate gateways were already well in place.

Figuring that getting overweight is more than 1 percent about the tempo of our glucose release, something green coffee might slow down, is somewhat naïve. Thinking overweight people can keep eating unhealthy and won’t have to move more to lose weight, is beyond moronic. “You don’t even have to walk to a store to get it!” said Oz, followed by: “Just pick up that mouse and let your fat fingers click away. Green coffee will save the day!” or something like that.

That Green coffee the Dr. talked about was ‘scientifically tested on 200 women, for 2 weeks’. Read that back, please and pause after 200 women and 2 weeks… Thought about it? That’s not scientific. That’s not even close! Yet it still beats the living daylights out of Camerons claim that Brittain’s going to be a better place once they’ve build that tiny wall in the world wide web, inmpossible to uphold and costing about the same as they took from people’s social services and child support.’

Do you want your website to get pornlike traffic? Would you like your pockets fatter than fat? Hire me and I’ll make it happen. Though I’m not yet sure how, this I firmly vow!

Murray Mountain

Murray won Wimbledon today. “It was a wonderful match!”, cried the old man handing him the trophy. He was lying.


Seemingly effortlessly he discarded those first three championship points. Then Novak Djokovic, the undisputed number one tennis player of the world, granted the struggling Andy Murray from Dunblande (Scotland) a fourth one. It was as if to say: ‘Come on now, lad. We both know this is your moment. Take it, son! I had plenty already.”

A few instants later the air was ripped apart by a roar like they’ve never heard before. It was the moment they’d all been waiting for. A year earlyer, after winning the US Open, his first Grand Slam, Murray was so overwhelmed that he didn’t know how to react. But not at this moment, right now he knew exactly what to do.

Immediately after winning that last point, Murray turned to the crowd. Not to that special box with his blood bound loved ones, but to his fans in the stands, the thousands on ‘Henman Hill’ and the millions in front of screens around the world. First he gave them his racket, soon followed by his tears. He then remembered to shake his opponents hand before his knees gave away, an intensely private moment in this most public of stages.

Tennis-technically Murray’s win was pretty awful. It definitely never approached the level of that illustrious final of 2008 between Nadal and Federer. That was a 5 hour spectacle, the exhilarating end of a trilogy in which gravel-specialist Nadal beat the best (grass)player ever. There were some similarities though. Both winners ran faster than their legs could carry them, both played sharper then their heads could process and both beat someone intrinsically better. But most of all, both were supposed to go like so, making their crowds explode for the inevitable end of an era.

Change was also what Fred Perry, Wimbledon’s last victorious male Brit, had in mind after winning Wimbledon for a third straight time (1936). Disillusioned by the class conscious nature of Britain’s tennis federation, working class Perry immediately turned pro and moved to America. In reaction, the Lawn Tennis Club of Great Britain waited 50 years to recognize Perry’s extraordinary achievement. They had to wait another 29 before they were forgiven by his spirit.

So on the 7th of the 7th, 77 years after their last male victor, not so Great Britain finally got their desperately awaited male Wimbledon winner. They had to applaud Americans, Frenchmen, a bunch of Germans and even an Egyptian before they finally did Andy. He won a horrible match today, but they deserved it.

Waarom Prasperger

Ik ben net afgewezen voor een baan. Ik wist vrij zeker dat ik dit werk nooit serieus zou kunnen nemen, maar ja…


Wandelend door de supermarkt hield mijn maag (of genetische bagage) me plotseling staande. Even keek ik achterom, maar er was niemand te zien. Gelukkig. Geen mens die zag dat ik met de plofkip flirtte. Kaal gepikt en opgefokt als een Russische  roeier lag ze daar naast een net iets minder vette scharrelaar.

Ook die is fout’ vertel ik mezelf, terwijl mijn maag rommelt en mijn keel extra speeksel aanmaakt. Ik probeerde mezelf voor te stellen hoe laatstgenoemd kipje krampachtig over andere kluifjes klauterde, angstig op zoek naar een plek om zich oprecht gevogelte te voelen. Daar wilde ik niet aan bijdragen natuurlijk, maar waarom dan toch die twijfel?

Mijn sollicitatie bij stichting Varkens in Nood ging trouwens goed tot mijn interviewer me om een boude stelling vroeg. “Iets als ‘varkens zijn de Joden onder de dieren’”, zei hij omdat dit blijkbaar hun meest succesvolle mediamoment was. Mijn hierop volgende gniffel verraadde volgens de betreffende medewerker een gebrek aan passie.

Een verleidelijke blik en: “Dat compenseer ik met schrijftalent!” ten spijt, werd ik bedankt voor mijn tijd. De dagen dat mijn bewierookte blikvangers mij uit dit soort situaties konden redden, waren overduidelijk voorbij. Het was crisis en voor mij konden ze vijftig anderen krijgen. “Dat u goed kunt schrijven, kunnen wij van tevoren niet zien.”, hoorde ik hem nog zeggen terwijl ik de deur uitliep en hij had gelijk.

Wenkbrauwen’ dacht ik ineens, terwijl ik nog altijd voor de kippen stond. Varkens moeten wenkbrauwen krijgen! Daarom hoor je ook nooit iemand huilen om hardhandig behandelde haringen. Het maakt niet uit hoeveel pijn je die doet, ze blijven je aanstaren met die koude knikkers. Ik zuchtte. Het was een meer dan briljant plan, maar natuurlijk veel te laat voor mijn sollicitatie.

Je kunt nog zo vaak vertellen dat je fantastisch kunt schrijven, dat varkens op Joden lijken, of dat scharrelkippen net zo lijden als hun collega’s in legbatterijen, mensen hebben plaatjes nodig. Varkens zijn vrolijke, intelligente wezens met wonderbaarlijke ogen. Stichting Varkens in Nood, moet Omroep Max sponsoren, en hen een varken schenken met geïmplanteerde wenkbrauwen. Vervolgens moeten ze dat beestje mee laten doen met Nederland in Beweging, liefst lachend en met massa’s mascara.

Er is inmiddels een man naast mij komen staan. Even kijkt hij opzij. Dan grijpt hij naar het plofmormel en stopt deze gauw in zijn mandje. “Biologisch is beter, he?” zeg ik. “Voor de kippen.” Hij loopt gniffelend weg, wijst naar zijn achterzak en roept: “Eind van de maand, hè! Voor mijn portemonnee.”