Category: Durban Poison

Cheap lies & dumb points

So here we are, clinging to shattered shards of hope trying desperately not to get swept away in the poisonous torrents of traducement that spew from the repulsive mouths of our lords of the lies and other vile merchants of mendacity. Our streets are full of toothless hags inventing tales of woe and the courts are packed with prevaricators of every shade. Churches reverberate to the sound of equivocating men fencing their own brand of truth while places of learning are overrun with pseudologists more suited to busking in subways. Parliament is overrun with wool-pulling fabulists and the papers are packed with shaggy dog stories.

Don’t believe what you see, read or hear. Don’t take anything at face value. Question everything and everyone, including the people with whom you live and work.

I saw a headline the other day that read, “Cops hunt for man who shot seven homeless people.” I didn’t read it because it’s full of trigger words, but it wouldn’t surprise me in the least if this turned out to be the latest scheme by our unhinged social development minister to solve the homeless problem. Nothing is as it seems any more.

We are down the rabbit hole and things can only get curiouser from now until the ANC elects a new president in the party’s traditional orgiastic feeding frenzy of greed and expediency. It’s becoming way too crowded around the trough and old snouts will have to make way for the new. It’s not going to be a pretty sight. Keep the curtains drawn and the children indoors.

Parliament may try to ram home a fistful of ill-considered laws before they turn off the lights and go off to do constituency work. I did some of that earlier in the week and was tongued awake the next day by my neighbour’s Labrador. To be fair, I was in his basket. Exhausting stuff, constituency work.

Speaking of which, one of the more malevolent pieces of legislation tabled recently is the elegantly named Administrative Adjudication of Road Traffic Offences Amendment Bill. Rolls off the tongue, doesn’t it. Amendments are meant to be good, right? We look to the glorious United States of America to set the standard here. The First Amendment guarantees freedom of religion, speech and the press. The Fourth Amendment protects people from unreasonable searches and seizures. The Eighth Amendment deals with excessive bail, fines and punishments that are forbidden. And so on. This gives the impression that amendments are good things. A tweaking of the laws so that the people might be better served and less oppressed.

Not here, buddy. When you hear the word ‘amendment’ in South Africa, you sell your house and get to the airport as quickly as possible. Leave your family. There’s no time.

And when the word ‘amendment’ appears in the same sentence as ‘road traffic offences’, you should know it’s not going to be a sensible amendment that encourages people to drive stoned because they are unable to go faster than 50km/h. Or an amendment that allows men to drink and drive if they are taller than 1.9m because we, I mean, they, can obviously hold their alcohol a lot better than a 1.5m teenage girl.

Instead of making good laws better, we’re making bad laws worse. This is in line with government thinking on pretty much everything, really. There is good news for some, though. Once implemented, the demerit system will enable traffic police to demand far bigger bribes since the stakes are so much higher. I’m happy for them. There’s no reason bribes shouldn’t at least keep pace with inflation.

In KwaZulu-Natal, traffic officers have already been trained “so that they can adapt to the new law”. Fair enough, although I would’ve thought it more important to train us, the general motoring public, who seem utterly unable to adapt to laws of any kind.

From what I can make out, the amendment is designed to reduce carnage on the roads in the most brutal way possible. On top of being fined, you will have points added to your licence. This sounds like a good thing. But if you go around boasting that you have 97 points on your licence, you’re doing it wrong. The higher your score, the more your chances of losing. It’s like golf, except you’re playing against Tiger Woods off his face on amphetamines.

Will the demerit system reduce the number of accidents on our roads? Of course not. I’m willing to wager that most crashes are caused by people not paying attention. The proliferation of cellphones, social media and infidelity has taken away our ability to concentrate for more than three minutes at a time. Accidents happen when our minds are elsewhere.

So the demerit system is not going to make drivers any less attention deficit. All it will do is take a vicious financial toll on motorists who activate speed traps, don’t use seatbelts and park in loading zones, all of which I do regularly without anyone getting hurt.

This is what Justice Project SA chairman Howard Dembovsky had to say about the amendment. “Something is terribly wrong here. This not only violates the constitution but the principles of the justice system.”

Here’s how it works. Do something naughty and you will receive an infringement notice ordering you to pay a fine. Ignore it and a month later you’ll get a “courtesy letter” – for which you will be charged – reminding you to pay up. Ignore that and 32 days later you’ll get an enforcement order notifying you of the number of demerit points against you and again ordering you to pay the fine plus the cost of the enforcement order. Until you pay, you won’t be able to renew your car’s licence disc. Ignore the enforcement order and a warrant of execution will be issued and the Sheriff will come to your house and take your stuff. This is a way of getting rid of the junk in your garage. He is also allowed to confiscate your licence, immobilise your car and report you to a credit bureau, after which you may wish to emigrate.

Let me tell you about the demerit system. You start off with zero points. Skip a stop sign, fail to renew the car’s licence or use your cellphone while driving and it’s a R500 fine plus one demerit point. Exceeding R100km/h in a 60km/h zone – which everyone does – will get you six demerit points and a fine. Drive with more than 0.05g of alcohol in your blood – which everyone does – will also see six points added to your licence. Plus a fine. You will then be stripped naked, given a light stoning by clerks from the finance department and, once the Alsatians have finished with you, banished from your village.

When you reach 12 points, the game is over and your driving licence is suspended for three months. One point is taken off if you behave yourself for three straight months. But get three suspensions and your licence is cancelled and destroyed. If you ever want to drive legally again, you will have to undergo a “rehabilitation” programme. That’s right. You’re going to rehab. And don’t expect any yummy methadone, either.

It doesn’t end there. Get out of rehab and it’s off to the tribunal. Do you know who else appears before tribunals? War criminals, that’s who. But you’re not a war criminal. War criminals aren’t expected to have their hearing repeatedly postponed because the photocopier is broken or their file is missing. War criminals aren’t expected to walk for three days to reach the tribunal because their licence has been suspended. You’re going to be wishing you were a war criminal by the time this is over.

If the tribunal decides that you have learnt from your mistakes – contrition is best shown by wearing sackcloth and lashing yourself with a cat ‘o nine tails – you will be able to apply for a learner’s licence. If you pass, you may take a driver’s test. I’m not making this up. They really think this is going to work.

Pregnant women apply for their unborn babies to write the K53 test in the hope that they’ll get an appointment by the time they turn 18. You get 12 points and lose your licence, you’ll be in a retirement home by the time you reach the front of the backlog .

The bill must now be adopted by the National Council of Provinces and signed into law by President Zuma. This is excellent news. Once Zuma starts applying his mind, all bets are off.

RoadblockBen

 

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Where the buffel ous roam

Quite a few white South Africans long for a return to the past. I am one of them. However, while the past they hanker after goes back to the time of PW Botha, I’m more interested in returning to the Golden Age where immortals mingled freely with the gods and there was peace and harmony and nobody had to work.

I don’t know what their flag looked like. Perhaps they didn’t even have a flag. It was a busy time, what with ruler Cronus castrating his father, Uranus, then marrying his own sister Rhea and having six children with her, five of whom he ate because his mother Gaia had told him he’d be overthrown by one of them, but little Zeus survived and was suckled and raised by the divine goat Amaltheia on the island of Crete before going on to make quite a name for himself. Zeus, not the goat. So you can imagine there might not have been time to fiddle about with flags.

I only mention flags because one of them caused a bit of a stir recently. A group of friends visited Brian’s Pub at the less salubrious end of Sea Point’s Main Road and spotted the old South African flag up on the wall. This was followed by a lively discussion and the summonsing of the police, who promptly arrested the complainants. This is standard operating procedure for Cape Town cops.

I lived in Sea Point for a few years and played pool in that pub a couple of times when it was still known as Brian’s Late Nite Tavern. It was a real dive and stayed open longer than any other bars in the area. Around 2am it would begin filling up with junkies and hookers and other creatures of the night. It was great. I don’t remember seeing the old South African flag on the wall. Then again, anyone who drinks at Brian’s is there to forget.

Owner Brian Dunn defended the flag. “That flag did nothing. It’s the politicians that did the problem, not the flag,” he said. “I have all the old flags like Namibia … I have the old Rhodesian flag hanging there also.”

Er, Brian? The old flag of Namibia is the same as the old flag of South Africa. And your Zimbabwean staff, if you have any, must really appreciate having the Rhodesian flag up. After all, it’s not the flag that ruined Zimbabwe – it’s the British. No, wait. It’s Zanu-PF. This is confusing.

A white Namibian-born friend of mine subsequently called for a boycott of Brian’s Pub on her Facebook page. First out of the woodwork was 52-year-old Bernard Herbert of Cape Town.

Bernard Herbert

He asked people to join him in “shoving it in the face” of my friend. “The Oranje Wit & Blou is not illegal, and it is the flag I served under in the SADF. IT STAYS ON MY SLEEVE!!!” he shouted, spraying his cat with spittle.

Repeatedly claiming an IQ of 140, which seems about as likely as Mzwanele Manyi not being a Gupta stooge, Herbert says he is openly proud of his heritage. He must have had some spittle left over because he added, “I especially spit on whites, who make negative comments, while misinterperreting who I am and make judgement and especially, who are traitors to my people, siding with the ideals of those oppressing us!”

A devoted Mormon, our boy says he leads a clean and virtuous life. He pays his TV licence and his etoll account is in credit. That’s right. In credit. As if that’s not enough to question his mental health, it’s also apparent that the best years of his life were spent in the army.

In fact, General Jannie Geldenhuys inducted Rifleman Herbert into the SA Defence Force Association in April this year. His certificate reads, “You as a Military Veteran are recognised for your contribution in the development of the RSA, the sacrifice you made and the price you have paid in serving South Africa selflessly in the South African Defence Force.”

When someone on Facebook called him a wanker, he was quick to point out their error. “Why would one masturbate when they have a wife they can turn to at any time?” Even when she’s cooking or cleaning, I presume. “Don’t stop, honey, this won’t take long.” If only we all had such accommodating wives.

Another snowflake libtard enemy of the alt-right asked why he stayed in Africa instead of moving to, say, Holland. I might be wrong, but I have an idea the Netherlands isn’t exactly clamouring to award citizenship to the likes of our lad Herbert. The Trump administration, on the other hand …

His response, “Because I was born on African soil and I do not yield for anybody, especially when five of every ten of them is mentally retarded.”

Claiming first-hand experience of “the barbarity of those peoples who came from up north”, he said he “saw it in Rhodesia, bearing arms at the age of 9, I saw it serving in the glorious SADF …” I’d heard tell of Ian Smith’s fearless child soldiers but until now I never really believed they existed.

In an earlier post, he says, “I am wearing my browns today, as every day. I still stand alone ready ‘om aan te triej‘ with the first available resistance force …” I suppose it does cut down on the laundry bill.

Herbert says he lives in harmony with the teachings of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and denies being a racist. It’s the other people who are racists. Them. The ANC. And the criminals in gummint.

“The only thing is that they are not tried and convicted for these crimes because they protect each other. They have long met the equivalent of the Gadiaton robbers in the Book of Mormon and I will take the stance of Captain Moroni very soon.” No need for the i, there, Captain.

He refers to “the terrorist Mandela”, bemoans violence against white people and accuses law enforcement agencies of being “involved in the racist and apartheid like oppression and stripping of justice for white South Africans”.

He goes on. “At a point we will have no choice but to defend our rights through an armed conflict, and I intend to be on the anti racism side of that conflict, as defined by President Hinckley.” President who? I visited the communist enclave Google for answers. Ah. A former leader of the Mormon Church who died in office at the age of 98. A bit like Mugabe, then, except mortal.

Shockingly, Rifleman Herbert doesn’t agree with people of the same gender raising a child. “Liberals would chain themselves to parliament if man intervened by giving lambs to lions to parent, yet they okay with humans being allowed to.” Absolutely. A lamb’s place is on the braai. Also, lions are gay.

He pledges his support to Vlakplaas killer Eugene de Kock, who he describes as “a friend and patriot” and in a couple of posts references the extreme right Suidlanders – which seems to be Herbert’s organisation of choice. He also describes the recent Knysna fires as a “purposefully executed plan by a terrorist network” and warns people to have their evacuation plans ready.

He denies that this is “prepper sensationalism” saying “We have had a current Colonel in the SAPS brief us at a meeting recently … Let me put it this way, he does not think we are nutcase prophets of doom!”

When someone calls him a “sorry soul”, he responds, “I chose my leaders and the ANC and those things that are anything but honorable that sit in that joke called parliament are not my leaders. I chose to subject myself to my leaders too, because we are a team and we will win, as we have before.” I expect he’s talking about Blood River.

The other day he posted a video of himself walking down what appears to be an empty street in the Cape Town suburb of Du Noon singing Die Stem to prove some or other obscure point.

A word of advice. If you do bump into Bernard Herbert, don’t mention the flag.

Blowing your own horns

Dear John Hume,

Congratulations on being the world’s largest rhino breeder. How big are you? Are you the size of a rhino? It doesn’t matter. For all I know, rhino breeders are tiny and you are simply the largest of these small people.

john-hume-rhinos

Most people keep dogs and cats, but not you, John. You’re a rhino person. It makes sense. Rhinos don’t sit on your keyboard while you’re trying to work. They don’t hog the couch or take up half the bed. You don’t wake up in the morning to a blast of rhino breath and have to get up and take him for a walk.

Of course, nobody would want to collect rhinos purely for their ornamental value. So it must have been terribly frustrating for you when trade in rhino horn was banned in South Africa in 2009. It would have driven me insane, seeing my rhinos standing about all day doing absolutely nothing to earn their keep.

What good are their horns if they’re not even being used to stab German tourists? At the best of times, rhinos don’t even know what to do with their horns. They just stand there staring at them all day. That’s why so many rhinos are crosseyed. A lot of them are also just plain cross. I suppose it’s because they’re not living at your place, the Playboy Mansion for rhinos, even if it is in Klerksdorp. Rhinos can’t tell that the place is a dump. Even if they did, I doubt they’d care. They’re just happy not to get shot in the face by a gentleman from Mozambique.

So it must’ve been a tremendous relief when the court forced the environmental affairs department to give you a permit to hold your three-day online auction this week. It’s a good thing we have an independent judiciary that knows the true value of one of our big five.

I tried to register for the auction but the R100 000 deposit was a bit steep. Pity. I was so looking forward to bagging a couple of the 264 horns for my own personal use. To be honest, I would have preferred a whole rhino so that I could cut his horn off at my leisure. If you buy a gram of coke, the dealer doesn’t expect you to schnarf it the moment money changes hands. You can take it home and shove it up your nose when the mood takes you. It should be the same with rhinos. Not that I’d schnarf rhino horn. I’m not from Hanoi, you know.

I understand you have 1500 rhinos in your garden. I bet you’ve never been burgled. It’s just occurred to me that rhinos could solve both our poverty and crime problems. Not literally. They’re not awfully bright. Although stick a couple of them in cheap suits and put them around the table at a cabinet meeting and I bet nobody would even notice their lack of input.

What I’m suggesting is that everyone gets a rhino farm. Or at least their own state-subsidised rhino. They make wonderful pets and even better guard dogs. Guard rhinos. I know I wouldn’t rob a house if there was a rhino curled up at the front door. And if you fall on hard times, you can chop his horn off and sell it. That’s R2-million right there. Keep the family in KFC for years.

Your job sounds like a lot of fun. Every couple of years, you grab your tranquiliser gun and run about shooting your fleet of ungulates in the bum. I’m sure they get a big kick out of the chase, too. It’s something to break the tedium, anyway. They fall over, have a little nap and wake up a kilogram or two lighter. We could all be so lucky.

When the horns grow back, you do it all over again. No wonder you have six tons of the stuff lying about the place. Must drive your wife crazy. There’s not much you can do with them either. Doorstoppers. Wind chimes. Something to hang your coat on. That’s about it. Then again, your stash is worth at least R500-million. That’s the kind of language any wife would understand.

The ban on international trade is still in place and your permit stipulates that any horns sold have to stay in South Africa. Of course they will. Our environmental affairs minister says systems are in place to prevent horns from reaching the black market. In fact, so secure are our borders that the only way to smuggle a horn out would be to take it to the Saxonwold shebeen, have it cling wrapped in R200 notes and couriered to the Waterkloof air force base.

I noticed that your auction website was translated into Mandarin and Vietnamese. This is nothing more than a happy coincidence. You are a man who embraces many cultures and not, as the vegetarians would have it, a man sending out a dog-whistle to the epicentre of the illicit trade in rhino horn.

An average of three rhinos are poached in this country every day. But, as you so rightly point out, flooding the ‘domestic’ market with hundreds of your horns will reduce demand and poachers will be out of a job in no time at all. It’s the same with marijuana. Legalise it and nobody would want it any more. Dagga farmers would have to start growing mielies and stoners would take up golf.

I read that a group called the National Frog Agency hacked your website, claiming that “your lack of common compassion for animals is outrageous”. Ignore them. What is more outrageous is that they can’t tell the difference between a frog and a rhino. This is what happens when you spend your afternoons licking hallucinogenic toads.

You were reported as saying that the proceeds of the auction – which could easily be R200-million – would be spent on protecting your herd. It’s an odd way to describe your family, but then I haven’t met them. Try to keep a bit of money aside for yourself. Buy something nice. Not another rhino. Something you don’t have to keep darting and sawing its nose off.

Listen, John. I have an idea for a movie. It’s called Saving Private Rhino. State Security Minister, David Mahlobo, would be perfect for the villain. I think we can get him. Throw in a free Thai massage and he’s ours. I would want to avoid getting into the whole black rhino, white rhino thing. This isn’t a movie about race. It’s about exploitation and getting as rich as possible off the backs of these dumb brutes. I’m talking about the actors, not the rhinos.

Let’s do lunch.

PS. Say hi to your good mate Dawie Groenewald, a trophy hunter and, like you, a true friend of the rhino. Obviously those 26 dehorned rhino found in a mass grave on his property died peacefully in their sleep. The poor guy is already facing so many charges here and now the Americans want to extradite him. You conservationists really do have a tough time.

Ben-rhino

A confederacy of dunces

Dear Oberst-Gruppenpresident Trump, Commander of the Washington Militia, Grandest of Wizards und Liberator of the Persecuted White Race,

Congratulations on everything. You are a magnificent specimen of the Herrenvolk and a credit to Caucasians everywhere. I do apologise. I never meant to insult you by using a word with ‘asians’ in it. We must get this devil word banned at once. We should be called Megacaucs or Caucachamps.

What a few days it’s been. First you send that vertically challenged North Korean troglodyte scuttling back to his cave with his vestigial tail wedged firmly between his chubby thighs. Then you single-handedly resurrect hopes for a brand new Confederate States of America.

It might not have been the Battle of Gettysburg, but the Skirmish of Charlottesville is rightfully yours to claim. Even General Robert E Lee started out small.

While more than half a million lives were lost in the Civil War, you sacrificed precious hours on the golf course. And you didn’t complain once. That is the mark of true leader and your name will be written in the anals of history. Oops. Obviously I don’t mean your name will be written in the bumhole of history. What’s the word? Annals, that’s it. I don’t know what it means either. Ban it.

Your country has a rich past from which many lessons can be learned. For instance, when you get around to bringing back slavery, this time try to find darkies who won’t complain about having to work in the cotton fields. Africa is full of people who would jump at a free ride to America. Zimbabweans will do anything to get out of their country. With all the new jobs you’re going to create, you’re going to need a bigger workforce. It doesn’t matter if they are in chains. Not being able to run away means they’ll have more energy at work and they will thank you for it.

I must applaud you on the way you deal with the media. Where did you learn your strategy? Is there a chapter on public relations in Sun Tzu’s Art of War? Good for you. There’s no reason to think that what worked in 5BC won’t work today. And if it doesn’t, there’s always the oft-quoted chapter on branding in Mr A Hitler’s bestselling marketing manual, Mein Kampf. However, branding is heavy work and you will need to procure your own branding iron.

Your three press conferences during and then post Charlottesville were masterful in the way they spread confusion through the ranks of the enemy. And by enemy, I obviously mean everyone who isn’t you, Eric and Donald Jr. I was going to include Melania and Ivanka but the girls appear to have been brainwashed into thinking that white nationalism is somehow wrong.

You need to get them under control, my friend. You can’t have your wife and daughter condemning one side when it’s quite obvious to anyone with half a brain that all sides need condemning. And you, sir, have nothing if not half a brain.

In a stroke of genius, you went on camera a couple of days later and read a statement apparently written for you by the Anti-Defamation League and the National Association for the Advancement of Coloured People, in which you condemned the supremacist groups by name. This confused a lot of people. Many were left wondering if you had taken some kind of magical potion that made you see reason.

Then, while they were still scratching their heads, you burst into the gilt-soaked lobby of Tump Tower and delivered a performance that can only be described as one that stunned admirers and mental health specialists alike. CNN later said there was a “sense of disbelief among some of your advisors”. Of course there was. I, too, can barely believe how awesome you are.

This wasn’t the White House. This was your house. Yours! You built it. Well, Mexicans probably built it. But it was you who bribed someone to give you a permit to put up a building constructed entirely of 24 carat gold. A great building. The best.

I loved the history lesson you gave to the fake media. Should all the statues of George Washington and Thomas Jefferson also be removed because they, like the Confederate hero General Stonewall Jackson, also owned slaves? Of course not. Like you, I believe that every city and town from Virginia to Louisiana should have statues of their most prominent slave owners. Obviously you’d need to incorporate grateful slaves at their feet to fully appreciate the white man’s contribution to making America what it is today.

Well done, by the way, on coining the phrase alt-left and exposing these hate-hating thugs for what they are. Like you, I also watched the video footage of decent God-fearing men – not even bothering to wear their traditional hoods – walking innocently through Charlottesville when they were savagely set upon by poorly dressed vegetarians shouting in their direction. The pacifists were left with no option but to defend their constitutional rights with whatever came to hand, which, fortuitously, happened to be pepper spray, clubs, shields, helmets and semi-automatic weapons.

As you said, these were peaceful folk out for nothing more than an evening stroll. They arrived in Ubers, for heaven’s sake, not Panzer tanks. All they wanted was a singalong by tiki torchlight. Who among us doesn’t fondly recall the songs from the old country? I clearly remember my grandmother singing ‘Blood and Soil‘ to me as a child before going out with granddad for a night of gay bashing and Jew-baiting. Happy times.

Ignore the criticism pouring in from around the world. Some leaders simply want to use big words like “false equivalency” and “mendacious narcissistic sociopath”. Words. Mere words. German Justice Minister Heiki Maas said it was “unbearable” how you were “sugarcoating” what happened in Charlottesville. Oh, please. In Germany you’re not allowed to greet your friend with a Roman salute or a friendly sieg heil or even fly a Swastika from your car aerial. What kind of democracy is that?

Here’s something you didn’t know. Your white supremacists are way more advanced than ours. Yours wear golf shirts and neatly pressed khaki trousers. Ours put on their shoes first and then their pants. If they even have pants. They can barely button up a shirt without help. We have a lot to learn.

Listen bruder, I’m thinking of getting the Afrika Korps together again. Could you send over a few of the good old boys from Alabama? The Suez Canal can be ours by Christmas. Okay, yours. I’ll keep an eye on it to make sure no immigrants use it.

Anyway. Whatever happens, don’t lose the support of too many congressmen or senators. While these are not proper white people as we would like them to be, you still need their support. But if putsch comes to shove and other Republicans want to distance themselves from the White House, have them deported to Pakistan. That should be enough distance.

The South will rise again!

KKK

Give me a break

A couple of weeks ago I wrote about my father’s health travails. Now it’s my turn. This is what happens when you get older. I’m going to be one of those people who, upon being asked, “How are you?” will pin you down, at gunpoint if necessary, and tell you in explicit detail.

It’s a good thing I’m not given to long, lingering illnesses. Get in, get sick, get out. Truth is, I don’t suffer much from poor health at all. I do, however, suffer from accidents. I have fallen into rivers and off mountains and been hit by everything from cars to bouncers.

This is why I am not terribly surprised to find myself with three fractured ribs. Disappointed, yes. Filled with self-loathing, absolutely. But not surprised.

Chest injuries were furthest from my mind when a friend called last Friday night and suggested I come around for dinner and other experiments. He fancies himself as something of an amateur scientist. You know the type. Has to understand how everything works. Was always blowing up the school laboratory. Except in this case, it wasn’t his school. Also, it was 3am. And he’d just turned 45.

Dinner was an experiment drawing heavily on his dangerously limited knowledge of plants, liquids and animals and how they react under certain conditions. He always insists on full audience participation and usually has his guests sign an indemnity form. He used my form to help start the braai.

The problem with homegrown scientists is that they don’t know when to stop. I had a bad feeling about the final experiment of the evening but he shouted me down. “What can go wrong?” he gibbered. Oh, I don’t know, I could’ve said. One of us might end up with fractured ribs, perhaps?

The body’s hematic system is composed of blood and the vessels that carry it through the body. On Friday night at approximately 11.45pm, our bloodstreams were made up of water, calcium, globulin, gin, glucose, tequila, potassium, beer, sodium and brandy. The introduction of tetrahydrocannibanol into hermatic systems already heavily contaminated with unstable toxicants was going to be a fascinating experiment. No, of course it wasn’t. It was an appalling idea from the start.

I don’t know at what point during my departure I decided to dispense with the stairs and simply glide effortlessly to my car. Author Douglas Adams said, “The knack of flying is learning how to throw yourself at the ground and miss.” I clearly have a lot of learning to do.

I woke up in the morning paralysed with pain and waited to die. That didn’t happen. By Sunday I was starting to get hungry. Since the hospital was next to the shops, it made sense to stop off there first. I didn’t want to spend a fortune at Woolworths only to be told there’s a good chance I’d expire before the beef lasagne.

Sunday is a bad day to seek medical attention. Or anything, really. Everyone has the Sunday Fear and nobody is interested in your problems. I staggered into casualty clutching my chest and moaning with every step. This, in the eyes of the interested observer, would appear to be a man in cardiac arrest. In the absence of interested observers, I was given a form to fill in and told to take a seat.

There was a lot of pain below the ribs, which worried me more than the actual chest pain. Ribs are ridiculous bones. They can make a hell of a fuss but if you ignore them they pull themselves together sooner or later. There’s a reason God made women from a rib. I was more concerned about my liver. My best drinking days were still ahead of me and I couldn’t have a second large, meaty organ falling into disuse.

I weed in a cup, had blood taken for a liver function test and got X-rays done. The doctor said I had a fracture on the 12th rib, promised to call me in an hour when the results were back and sprinted for her Mercedes.

The following day another doctor looked at the X-rays and said there were fractures on the 3rd and 4th ribs, too. Also on my clavicle. “Is this sore?” she said, whacking me on the clavicle. Now it is. I had to wee in another cup. Presumably one of the night staff mistook the first one for an energy drink. Then it was off to radiology for an ultrasound. With my shirt off, I appeared to be in my third trimester. I joked about my baby while the radiologist smeared jelly on my belly but he wasn’t in the mood.

“I can’t see your pancreas,” he said. I told him that it had to be in there somewhere and encouraged him to keep looking. I said drinks were on me if he found it. Then he called my liver Fatty. I gave him the lazy eye. “You’re no supermodel yourself,” I said. After a bit more prodding and poking he gave up in disgust, tossed a paper towel onto my chest and walked out. I felt so used.

Now I have sacks of anti-inflammatories and painkillers, one of which works by “effectively tricking the brain into thinking that endorphins have been released”. Worth a shot. After all, I got into this mess after taking a herbal remedy that effectively tricked my brain into thinking I can fly.

Luckily I’m on Discovery Health’s hospital plan and have been for nearly 20 years. In all that time, I’ve claimed once. They owe me, big time.

Oh, wait. They’re refusing to pay for this latest treatment, presumably because I wasn’t flown in by air ambulance with at least two severed limbs and a brain tumour.

Ben-injured

Guam – some helpful holiday hints

The Pacific island paradise of Guam is lovely at this time of year. Here are a few things you can do to help make your holiday a once-in-a-lifetime experience.

For starters, don’t worry that you won’t know if the bomb has dropped. You are unlikely to mistake it for a car backfiring in the street. It will be louder than that. Once you have heard the blast, resist the urge to rush outside and see what happened. You need to wait for the radiation to blow away. Refrain from sexual activity. This is not a good time for a woman to conceive. Unless, of course, you can afford to have another three mouths to feed. And you don’t mind that they’re all on the same baby.

If the bomb drops before you can reach an underground shelter, quickly put on a floppy hat and a pair of decent sunglasses. The flash is very bright and could damage your eyesight. The flash is also very hot and can leave you with a nasty burn if you’re not careful. If this happens, smear a little butter on it right away.

The detonation of a 300-kiloton nuclear device releases 300 trillion calories within a millionth of a second. If you are in the habit of watching calories, you will need to have your wits about you. Get behind a wall or down on the floor and make yourself as small as possible. You really can’t afford to pile on more calories.

The energy of the blast will also create a giant fireball. This wouldn’t be so bad if the bomb had to drop on Cape Town in winter, but if you live in Durban and it was mid-summer, the additional heat would be unbearable and fewer people than usual would pitch up for work.

Waves of thermal energy will ignite fires across the city. If you are having trouble lighting a braai, you will welcome the extra help. Very hot high-speed gales will also spring up, so postpone kite surfing or paragliding if a nuclear attack is expected.

If you have any old furniture you’ve been meaning to strip down, leave it in the garden. The blast wave will remove the paint nicely.

Once the blast wave has passed, have a shower to wash off any lingering radiation and put the kettle on for a nice cup of tea. But be quick because the rising fireball will create a suction effect and a lot of stuff will start heading back towards ground zero. If you see cars, trees, animals and so on flying past your window, hold on to something until the winds die down.

There will be a lot of dust and other stuff in the air, so if you suffer from hay fever you may want to take an antihistamine. The streets will be quite warm from all that hot air passing over them and it’s best to put on a sturdy pair of shoes before venturing out. Things may look a little different and it’s important that you remain positive.

Take the opportunity to relax and enjoy the quiet.

South BeachDurban. Photograph Graeme Williams
South Beach Durban. Photograph Graeme Williams

Tuesday’s Great Confidence Trick

Dear Honourable and Dishonourable ANC Members of Parliament,

So, a big day for you on Tuesday. You get to tell the nation that you have confidence in Jacob Zuma as our president. At the same time, you’re also allowed to express your real feelings. That’s the beauty of democracy.

So I hope you’re all feeling strong and healthy and ready to do your bit for the motherland. It would be a terrible shame if some of you – 51 should do it – fell violently ill on Monday and called in sick on the day of the vote, thereby allowing the opposition to unseat the greatest leader the world has ever seen.

Nobody in their right mind would vote against a president who is one hundred percent committed to destroying the country, presumably so that it may be rebuilt stronger than ever. But let us not get ahead of ourselves. Let’s get the destroying part done first. Our leader is under enough pressure as it is without his representatives in the legislature joining the counterrevolutionary proletariat in their irrational demands. There is a natural order to these things. Visions aren’t accomplished in a day.

Many of you have worked long and hard to help President Zuma succeed with Project Destroy. This is to your eternal credit and you will be richly rewarded, on top of the rewards you have already received. This is a project that never runs out of rewards. It’s like having timeshare in the Treasury.

This is your turn to eat. Unless, of course, you’re one of those MPs who weigh more than 150kg. In which case it’s your turn to buy a new car. Hell, buy two. Three. Spoil yourself. You’ve earned it. You have shown remarkable loyalty to a leader who works so selflessly and tirelessly to take money away from taxpayers to save them from themselves. Taxpayers drink and smoke and take drugs. They have casual sex and park on yellow lines. They gamble on the horses and in the casinos. They cannot be trusted with money. This is why our noble president must do what he does. Take their money and put in safekeeping. Not here, obviously. Large sums of money are best kept outside South Africa. Fortunately, the United Arab Emirates has made special provisions in this regard.

A vote of no confidence in the president would be a vote of no confidence in his humanitarian project. What kind self-respecting nationalist would do such a thing? American President Donald Trump has a similar plan, but he lacks our benevolent commander-in-chief’s intellect and ambition. Trump only wants to repeal Obamacare. Zuma wants to repeal the entire economy. I like a man who dreams big.

A massive 33% of voters approve of Trump’s performance in office. With the exception of one or two renegades who have clearly gone insane, every one of you slumped on an ANC bench approves of our noble president’s dream of uplifting the poor, even if it is only an impoverished family of humble Indian immigrants squatting in a shebeen in Saxonwold. Small steps.

Members of parliament who don’t have a blesser for a leader will vote against the president on Tuesday. This unpatriotic behaviour must be condemned. And when I say condemned, I mean they must be taken outside and shot. It’s the only language liberals and democrats understand.

At the time of writing this, Speaker Baleka Mbete was still trying to decide whether she should allow a secret ballot. I think voting should be open. Secrets are for governments with something to hide. Ours is a firm believer in transparency, even going so far as to loot and pillage in broad daylight right under our noses. We, the people, appreciate that kind of openness.

It’s only been 45 days since the Constitutional Court ruled that Mbete had the power to make the ballot a secret one. These things are not to be rushed. I once took a year to decide whether I should give my second marriage a third shot. The answer, of course, doesn’t lie in the decision ipso facto. It lies in the consequences.

Speaking of lies, ANC secretary-general Greedy Mantashe has made it clear that none of you is allowed to vote according to your conscience. And rightly so. Your membership fee entitles you to a T-shirt, a cap and unlimited access to the party’s free website. Also, if you know the right people, wealth beyond your wildest imaginings. It does not entitle you to a conscience. You are lawmakers and the business of making laws would be severely compromised if you had to start differentiating between right and wrong. That nonsense is the exclusive preserve of bong-puffing philosophers, kiddie fiddler priests and judges of the high court who spend more time on Tinder than on writing up judgements.

Mantashe emphasised that the ANC is not a party of free agents. It is a party of captured agents. And also travel agents, because you guys are always somewhere else. The DA is a party of bloody agents. The EFF is a party of secret agents. The Freedom Front Plus is a party of estate agents (willing buyer, willing seller or death). And so on.

By the way, have you heard about this new coalition called FutureSA? Members include – Sipho Pityana, Sydney Mufamadi, Kumi Naidoo, Terence Nombembe, Zac Yakoob and Bruce Fordyce – now apparently running against the comrades. Heavy hitters, but not as heavy as you. They get to bring Cape Town to a standstill on Tuesday, but if you vote as I expect you will, the entire country will eventually grind to a standstill. That’s what I call real power. And, as they say in Cuba, with real power comes real money.

Our angelic president has survived at least six votes of no confidence. This makes him a winner in anyone’s book. Don’t spoil his unblemished record. He will still lead us to the promised land. Maybe keep some money aside for a visa. Dubai charges R1 370 for 30 days. And, remember, no singing, dancing, drinking, swearing, gayness or public displays of affection. It’s not that kind of promised land.