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The definition of a sense of humour is not simply the ability to laugh – a brain-damaged baby can do that – but the ability to laugh at ourselves. A Christian, for example, who thinks a cartoon of Mohammed shagging a sheep is hilarious, but is highly offended by Andres Serrano's Piss Christ is as emotionally underdeveloped as their Muslim counterpart. It’s a pity we don’t yet have the technology to force humourless adults to repeat their childhood.
Laughter may have an endorphic effect, but it’s not an expression of joy. The reaction to extreme happiness, like getting married, winning the lottery or birthing a sprog (if that’s what floats your boat) isn’t laughter, but tears. Laughter is candy-coated anger, an atavistic convulsion, as aggressive as a dog’s bark, and just as scary. It’s a primal assertion of power from a position of safety, which explains why laughter works best in groups and is always targeted at a weaker victim – even in jokes.
To illustrate the aggression of laughter: imagine walking in to a roomful of people laughing their cracks off. What’s your first response? That’s right – it’s usually: "Oh shit, please don’t let them be laughing at me!" If you’re not the target, you feel relieved and safe. If you are, you feel like you’ve just fallen into a maniac’s snake pit. A good giggle and soul-crushing terror are really just two sides of the same crazy coin. And to push that point home even further, imagine how you would feel if all those people laughing at you were wearing clown suits. Brr!
But although an aggressive atavistic convulsion isn’t the best medicine (if I had cancer I’d choose chemotherapy over comedy every time) laughter serves two useful social functions. Firstly, its cathartic power has prevented at least one adolescent wannabe writer from getting high, playing The Doors at full volume and murdering their entire family in their beds with a steak knife. As a non-violent anger release valve, it beats the living hell out of Pilates – and is second only to beating the living hell out of a Pilates instructor.
Secondly, it informs morons that they’re morons without having to talk to them. There’s only one thing more self defeating than arguing with a moron, and that’s arguing with an anonymous moron. My golden rule: if you allow yourself to get angry and offended at anything you see on the intertubes, you probably deserve it.
Which is why my response to Günther Jurgens Kotzé’s Facebook page was to LOL IRL. The man is undeniably batshit insane – or, to use the technical psychiatric term, freaking nuts. He even sports a post-lobotomy hairdo, like those liberal pranksters in Die Antwoord, but this guy is no plastic novelty act out to make a quick buck. He’s actually serious (I think), and that makes him far more entertaining than a vapid joke band.
Kotzé is a 30-something right-wing maniac using social media to show his love for Armageddon. He’s really into Armageddon. He wants to fuck Armageddon and have its babies. Did I mention he’s totally mental? I’d suggest he be thrown into a padded cell before he hurts someone, but although he calls himself a "Boere Viking" and "Babylon’s Enemy Number One", he’s about as harmless as a yapping Chihuahua. Or the AWB, for that matter.
According to Letterdash blogger The Needle’s Point (thanks dude), Kotzé is the spokesperson for the Suidlanders, yet another crazy-ass bunch of retards who think that they’re representatives of all Afrikaners everywhere now that they have enough members to fill a Taz. Apparently they all want to move into the Kalahari desert somewhere to escape blacks or something until Armageddon comes and rapes us all in the face for being Satanic communists.
His magnum opus thus far is eight minutes of comedy gold on video, recorded three weeks before the World Cup. Speaking from a green suburban garden (you can actually hear the little birds chirping away in the background) Kotzé gormlessly tells his audience about the chaotic hellhole South Africa has become, about cannibalistic, voodoo-worshiping, baby-raping African immigrants, and best of all, that both Jacob Zuma and Helen Zille are "masons".
He predicts that the World Cup won’t get past day two before the tourists get themselves raped and cut up by the black savages we call citizens.
"You can blame ME if nothing happens!" he says with all the confidence of the faithful. "If Uhuru doesn’t tref, then I’m just another crackhead and I’ll go crawl back under my rock."
He’s still on Facebook, last time I checked. Perhaps 'rock' is code for 'ma se rok'. Who knows?
White South Africans should take heed of Günther Jurgens Kotzé. If we’re going to learn to laugh at ourselves, his eight minutes of fame is an ideal starting point. Libtards can use it as a training video to lighten the hell up, and conservatives can view it as a parody of their own beliefs. Though unintentional, this local hero has produced a gateway to a happier, healthier you.
Go Günther! Here’s hoping there’s broadband in the Kalahari.
Laughter may have an endorphic effect, but it’s not an expression of joy. The reaction to extreme happiness, like getting married, winning the lottery or birthing a sprog (if that’s what floats your boat) isn’t laughter, but tears. Laughter is candy-coated anger, an atavistic convulsion, as aggressive as a dog’s bark, and just as scary. It’s a primal assertion of power from a position of safety, which explains why laughter works best in groups and is always targeted at a weaker victim – even in jokes.
To illustrate the aggression of laughter: imagine walking in to a roomful of people laughing their cracks off. What’s your first response? That’s right – it’s usually: "Oh shit, please don’t let them be laughing at me!" If you’re not the target, you feel relieved and safe. If you are, you feel like you’ve just fallen into a maniac’s snake pit. A good giggle and soul-crushing terror are really just two sides of the same crazy coin. And to push that point home even further, imagine how you would feel if all those people laughing at you were wearing clown suits. Brr!
But although an aggressive atavistic convulsion isn’t the best medicine (if I had cancer I’d choose chemotherapy over comedy every time) laughter serves two useful social functions. Firstly, its cathartic power has prevented at least one adolescent wannabe writer from getting high, playing The Doors at full volume and murdering their entire family in their beds with a steak knife. As a non-violent anger release valve, it beats the living hell out of Pilates – and is second only to beating the living hell out of a Pilates instructor.
Secondly, it informs morons that they’re morons without having to talk to them. There’s only one thing more self defeating than arguing with a moron, and that’s arguing with an anonymous moron. My golden rule: if you allow yourself to get angry and offended at anything you see on the intertubes, you probably deserve it.
Which is why my response to Günther Jurgens Kotzé’s Facebook page was to LOL IRL. The man is undeniably batshit insane – or, to use the technical psychiatric term, freaking nuts. He even sports a post-lobotomy hairdo, like those liberal pranksters in Die Antwoord, but this guy is no plastic novelty act out to make a quick buck. He’s actually serious (I think), and that makes him far more entertaining than a vapid joke band.
Kotzé is a 30-something right-wing maniac using social media to show his love for Armageddon. He’s really into Armageddon. He wants to fuck Armageddon and have its babies. Did I mention he’s totally mental? I’d suggest he be thrown into a padded cell before he hurts someone, but although he calls himself a "Boere Viking" and "Babylon’s Enemy Number One", he’s about as harmless as a yapping Chihuahua. Or the AWB, for that matter.
According to Letterdash blogger The Needle’s Point (thanks dude), Kotzé is the spokesperson for the Suidlanders, yet another crazy-ass bunch of retards who think that they’re representatives of all Afrikaners everywhere now that they have enough members to fill a Taz. Apparently they all want to move into the Kalahari desert somewhere to escape blacks or something until Armageddon comes and rapes us all in the face for being Satanic communists.
His magnum opus thus far is eight minutes of comedy gold on video, recorded three weeks before the World Cup. Speaking from a green suburban garden (you can actually hear the little birds chirping away in the background) Kotzé gormlessly tells his audience about the chaotic hellhole South Africa has become, about cannibalistic, voodoo-worshiping, baby-raping African immigrants, and best of all, that both Jacob Zuma and Helen Zille are "masons".
He predicts that the World Cup won’t get past day two before the tourists get themselves raped and cut up by the black savages we call citizens.
"You can blame ME if nothing happens!" he says with all the confidence of the faithful. "If Uhuru doesn’t tref, then I’m just another crackhead and I’ll go crawl back under my rock."
He’s still on Facebook, last time I checked. Perhaps 'rock' is code for 'ma se rok'. Who knows?
White South Africans should take heed of Günther Jurgens Kotzé. If we’re going to learn to laugh at ourselves, his eight minutes of fame is an ideal starting point. Libtards can use it as a training video to lighten the hell up, and conservatives can view it as a parody of their own beliefs. Though unintentional, this local hero has produced a gateway to a happier, healthier you.
Go Günther! Here’s hoping there’s broadband in the Kalahari.
