Every time there is an election in South Africa, white women put on a tremendous amount of weight. Well, Brenda does, and I have always used her as a yardstick for the rest of the female Caucasian population.
In 1994, housewives like Brenda stocked up on groceries because the natives were going to lose their minds after being allowed to vote and were going to burn the supermarkets to the ground and start copulating with one another right there in the middle of the street.
Those who weren’t copulating would be going from house to house rounding up people at gunpoint and herding them into stadiums to watch local soccer.
White women no longer have the same fears they had during the first elections. Sure, they still have disturbing dreams about black men, but at least when they cry out in their sleep they do it with a smile on their faces.
Sadly, their need to stockpile food is still there. But instead of overloading the fridge, they are bringing food back from the supermarket and stuffing it straight into their mouths.
On the night the election results were announced, I caught Brenda skulking at the back of the house. She had what looked like the hindquarters of a lamb hanging from her mouth. It was horrible.
I hadn’t been able to afford red meat for months and the sight got me salivating so badly that I had to use Clive’s snorkel to avoid drowning in my own sputum.
Later, sprawled in the kameeldoring digesting her evening meal, Brenda said the two-thirds majority had driven her to it. I called her a liar and she snarled and lashed out at my face. Luckily her metabolism was barely ticking over and I escaped with a mere flesh wound.
Evidence suggests that Brenda is not the only woman waddling about the house blaming the ANC for their weight problem. Naturally, they don’t refer to it as a problem. They prefer to think of it as some sort of gastro-electoral disorder. I am far from convinced.
Brenda hasn’t stopped eating since she voted. What kind of disorder is that? It’s the Big Fat Greedy Pig Disorder, that’s what it is.
Neighbour Ted told me he saw a tape in the library that promises to help people lose weight. Please. The only tape Brenda needs is gaffer tape to cover her enormous mouth.
Some say that inside every fat person is a thin person trying to get out. I have noticed that there aren’t many thin people in our neighbourhood. Perhaps Brenda has eaten them all.
I have thought about trying to get help locally.
The trouble is that South Africans suffer from so many disorders, ranging from post-traumatic stress to the one that causes you to excuse yourself from the dinner table and go out and spend the rest of the night raping and stabbing complete strangers, that it is almost impossible to find someone who has the time to actually diagnose your condition.
The head doctors are so backed up these days that you’ve hardly begun explaining your symptoms when you’re ushered out of the side door clutching a goodie bag of Viagra to get you up, lithium to get you down, phencyclidine to keep you awake, cyclobarbital to make you sleep, a condom, a femidom, free membership to the Cape Mental Health Society and a voucher for Teazers.
And while this South African psychiatric survival kit seems to have everything one needs to lead a healthy, balanced life, there is nothing like the personal touch to help the barking mad see the error of their ways.
This is why I have set up my own practice in the old Wendy house at the bottom of the garden. I have already diagnosed Brenda as suffering from exogenous obesity, which means she has only herself to blame for being such a gormandising chow-hound.
Later, when I tried to slip her an invoice, she poured hot tea over my exposed genitals. That’s the kind of thanks I get.
Ted wasn’t much better. He came around on Sunday and it wasn’t long before he accidentally drank too much and threatened to give me a transorbital lobotomy with a rusty screwdriver unless I came up with more beer.
I told him he was suffering from intermittent explosive disorder and ran for my life.