SMOKE: G-String By Courier
Originally published: 23 March 2005
TVSA is one of the leading television entertainment publications in South Africa, and no - I'm not practising my blurb for the Ananzi site directory.
It is. No other publication covers as many television shows and as much television-related hot goss as TVSA does, and nobody in the country - possibly even the universe - covers shows like The Amazing Race and Survivor in as much depth as we do.
Which makes us the new best friend of most television channels in this country, as you may have gathered by now.
This means that Tashi gets lots of invitations to broadcast schedule previews, dinners, weekend getaways with Jeff Probst - that sort of crazy stuff that happens in telly-land. She also receives truckloads of press releases and show promotions packs.
And by "truckloads" I don't just mean she gets a lot - trucks regularly pull up outside our door, blocking traffic in our narrow road, and the afternoon is spent unloading it all. Takes Tashi weeks to get through just one delivery, and those trucks sometimes queue up for three kilometres down Rosmead Avenue.
Hyperbole and japery aside - the television channel promotions folks really put a lot of time and effort into coming up with cool and creative ways to promote their new shows with the publications that might be covering them.
Yes, yes - they want to be in the good books of the publications that might be writing about their shows or channels, but that's understood by all parties and accepted.
I'm not saying we temper our commentary accordingly - we don't, or we would lose credibility in a heartbeat - but it does help keep relations good between all businesses involved.
We've received some stunning hampers before, which are always delivered by courier. The one for the MNET series Lost arrived in a huge, bulky parcel that was leaking a trail of beach sand, and upon opening it we discovered a black metal box with the title "Lost Black Box" inscribed on it (with a prominent MNET logo, of course). When we opened the box we discovered it was full of sand.
Buried in the sand were the following items you would definitely want if you were indeed lost on a desert island: a nip of brandy, a nip of gin, a sewing kit (containing a small pair of scissors, a pack of different size needles, buttons, collar studs, a tape measure, a thimble and 20 small rolls of cotton, in a myriad of colours), two energy bars and some chocolates.
As well as a rolled-up scroll that contained details of the show times, the characters and other important background information to the show.
See what I mean by truckloads? No ordinary press releases for our channel-owning friends.
It always astounds me how much time and effort goes into preparing these hampers - they have to employ someone whose sole job is to think up creative ways of packaging their shows for the media. Quite a cool job, actually.
But this week a truly exceptional hamper arrived - an enormous construction that weighed a ton and which was wrapped in bubble wrap and banded together with kilometres of duct tape - the really industrial stuff.
Upon opening it we discovered a metal-framed laundry hamper with the "Desperate Housewives" logo and other stuff on it, and inside it were five different-coloured bottles of washing up liquid - each with the face of a different housewife on it - a feather duster, a foam scrubbing pad, a tub of hand cream and best of all a pair of red, see-through lace panties.
A g-string, to be precise.
Laundry hamper - fine. Nice, actually. Washing up liquid - fair enough. Always need summa that. The rest - whatever. Cute.
But the g-string!
The only reason I know what was in that hamper was because I just went and checked - all I can remember seeing was those flimsy little panties and all I saw was red. To misquote Metallica somewhat, while remaining true to their original ethos: nothing else mattered.
These promotional hampers aren't necessarily meant to be taken seriously, I don't think, but don't ask an oke not to take a red lace g-string seriously - that's some very serious shit you're mucking with, mate. A red g-string equals a red flag and to that flag must I - like a bull - charge. With undue haste.
All business flew out of the window at that moment and all I wanted was someone to model those fine panties for me. Put 'em on, filthy mistress. I'll rip 'em off, dirty birdie. With my teeth.
It's a guy thing.
I had two potential models but only one of them was prepared to interrupt her business day to model that g-string. And there's no way in hell I'd ever watch That Bloody Dog modelling fine underwear like that - working her tongue under the string and into her flea-infested bottom.
It would be the last straw, I swear to you. That would finish me off - not the lung tar or the swarthy bloke hanging around outside my gate.
Despite my best efforts I had to be content with promises of a loooong weekend coming up and like any other good, hardworking, decent gent - I never forget a promise of that nature. Never.
I spent most of the rest of my afternoon dreaming up ways to get creative with that red g-string, and believe me when I tell you that I was not short of ideas.
I'm looking forward to implementing some of them on Good Friday. Sex and religion are worlds apart for me, I'm afraid. Call it my rebellion against Catholicism and a none too subtle one neither.
Chicks, take note: be careful what you promise. Don't be flippant. Unless you want to spend the whole of the next week just screaming and screaming in pleasure. At the mere thought of what transpired on that dirty, dirty weekend.
I'm glad it doesn't work the other way round, though - the last thing on earth I'd want is my hot little wife worshipping my sweaty jocks. I just don't think so.
All Smoked Out,