Tag: animals

An open letter to Michaela ‘Sexy Hunter’ Fialova  

Dear Michaela,

When I first saw your picture I mistook you for just another of those very attractive, deeply sensitive women in their twenties who go around not killing things for fun. We don’t need women like that in this world. Actually, we do.

We need them to look after the children, although they shouldn’t even be allowed to do that unless they can strip a hunting rifle in under thirty seconds. I’m sure you agree that modern childcare has to involve weapons training.

So you’re from Czechoslovakia? Damn, that’s hot. Do you know a guy called Radovan Krecjir? Of course you do. He also loves killing things. People, mostly.


I stalked you on Facebook in pretty much the same way that you stalked all those animals in my country recently. The only difference is that you got to live and I got … well, I got the vicarious thrill of looking at photos like the one of you on Valentine’s Day kissing some lucky guy holding a powerful rifle fitted with what looks like a silencer. Is he also a hunter or more of a hired assassin?

I particularly like the monkey you’re holding by the front legs. He’s grinning and looking up at you as you smooch the sniper as if to say, “Hey babe, how about cutting me in on the action?”

Michaela Fialova with monkey

Oh, wait. He’s not grinning. It’s a rictus thing. There’s nothing that says ‘I love you’ more than kissing someone holding a dead monkey. I’m surprised Hallmark hasn’t thought to bring out a card.

And there’s another cute photo. You’ve got your gun in one hand and … oh, those tight pants just kill me. Your caption reads, “Throwback! My first vervet monkey SA (two smiley faces). 110m with 308 win.”

As far as throwbacks go, sweetheart, you’re right up there with the best of them. Sorry. Did you perhaps mean you throw him back into the bush? Maybe it’s a Czech thing. Catch, kill, release. Your own personal Vervet Revolution. You go, girl.

I understand you’re a personal trainer? Well done. There is altogether too much focus on developing the mind these days. The body is what’s important. As far as intelligence goes, all one needs in order to survive is an ability to kill and cook. You’re clearly a master of both. There’s even a video of you in the kitchen preparing zebra steaks, which is something everyone needs to learn.


Anyway, thank you for helping us reduce our zebra population. The a’re nothing more than horses with swag, but you wouldn’t think so if you had to see their attitude when it comes to demanding preferential treatment in the job market. Arrogant black-and-white bastards, the lot of them.

Oh, look. You have a fan page called Michaelka’s Hunting. And your profile picture shows you holding a shotgun and wearing a pith helmet. You’re taking the pith, right? What do you hunt with a gun like that? I bet your boyfriend throws tortoises into the air and you bring ’em down. Like skeet shooting but more fun because skeets don’t scream when they get shot. Fair enough. At least the tortoises get to feel what it’s like to fly once in their lives.


You have another picture of your smiling face in the foreground and a terrified huddle of giraffe in the background. You wrote, “This is the way to see animals!!! Not support zoo!!! Zoo is most sad and disghusting thing I ever seen!!!!”

I couldn’t agree more. What the hell is the point of putting animals in cages if you’re not allowed to shoot them? Sad and disghusting, indeed. I hope that one day we will be able to ride through zoos murdering animals from the comfort of a golf cart. I’d like to have you at my side. I’ll even reload your Benjamin Rogue .357, if you know what I mean.

On March 6 you posted a selfie of yourself sprawled on the ground, your snug little shorts riding high, and captioned it, “Baffalo hunting – we just rest on the road after 4 hours stalking – hope we will get more luck today.”

Listen to me, babe. I know what I’m talking about. You have to be careful of them baffalo. Buffalo are easy. You walk right up and shoot them in the back of the head. And they’re grateful for it. But a baffalo? He’s a cross between a barracuda and a buffalo and a mean motherfucker, pardon my Shakespeare. If he turns on you, don’t even think of running into the water.


While I was writing this, you posted a fresh picture of yourself with a dead hyena. Maybe he’s alive and pretending to be dead. Hyenas are sneaky like that. But judging by the smile on your exquisite face, he is an ex-hyena. He is no more. What bait did you use? Hyenas are mad for boerewors. They’ll take it right out of your hand. Is that when you stabbed him in the face? It must have been quite a struggle. Sometimes you have to cut a hyena’s head off just to get your boerewors back. They’re worse than politicians.


On February 18 you posted a picture of yourself with a heavily armed woman in camouflage. An older woman. You wrote, “Love hunting with other girls!!!” Like most heterosexual men, I’m curious. How do you do it? If you have any pictures of you and other girls ‘polishing your bullets’, I’d love to see them.

By the way, do you eat the monkeys? Of course not. You’re a professional. Dead monkeys are good for one thing only. First, you have a few people around and get really stoned. Then you put the monkey in different poses, like reading a newspaper or driving a car. It’s hilarious. God created monkeys for our personal amusement when He created the earth six thousand years ago. Monkeys know this and they are happy to play along, dead or alive.

You, honey-bunny, are the Jihadi John of the bushveld and we hope you keep coming back to Africa to help eradicate all these unsightly animals.

Your fan, knee-deep in blood and gore,

Ben Trovato

* Messages of love and support can be sent to the world’s sexiest psychopath at michaelkashunting@post.cz


Trovato cooking game


Misanthropy Is The Life For Me

Wednesday started well enough with a near-drowning experience at North Beach and a few mugs of electric tea with the legendary lawyer Psycho Syd Taverner, followed by an unexpected nap and a frighteningly real nightmare that I was on deadline.

I was about to start writing when the power in the area went off. This is just one of the many delightful quirks of life in South Africa. Who wants to live in a country where everything works?

It’s far more exciting to drive around late at night in the middle of an electrical storm looking for a pub with free wi-fi while running the risk of getting hijacked, stuffed into the boot and skinned like a dumb animal on the banks of the Umgeni River.

I find a place on the edge of a boomslang-infested chunk of North Coast jungle and the werewolf at the door reluctantly allows me inside to filch some of their power. Armed with a Macbook, I’m clearly out looking for trouble.

The manager relaxes when I start chain-ordering double brandies and Coke. It’s like a secret signal among the brotherhood. If you drink Klippies, you’re okay.

It’s the same kind of thing that makes the owners of old Land Rovers wave to each other. It’s also one of the reasons I want to sell mine. All this waving at strange men defeats the point of driving a Defender in the first place – to assert your masculinity.

I adopt a defensive position against the far wall and size up the clientele. All I see is the very worst of humanity – estate agents doing deals at the bar. Crying babies. Lonely gin junkies eyeing me with intent. Happily married couples. Afrikaners. Cockneys who fled to the shires because London was getting too African and Asian and then, inexplicably, fled to Durban where they spend their time drinking imported ale and complaining about the blacks and the Indians.

The man at the table in front of me orders chicken livers. What kind of maniac eats an organ designed to filter toxins from the blood? Sis, man.

The woman asks the waiter if they serve vegetables. I want to shout, “Madam, they serve anyone.”

Estate agents have a pitch in their voice that is aimed squarely at your central nervous system. After hearing it for one minute, your senses start going numb. Two minutes, and you begin losing your ability to tell right from wrong. Three minutes, and you have to get away or your brain will turn to jelly and ooze from your ears. But you can’t escape because she has locked you inside. Your only way out is to buy the place.

One of those babies born with the umbilical cord wrapped around its neck is two tables away and is only now discovering it can make sounds. The parents think it’s cute. Every time their abominable loinfruit shrieks, they look around, smiling, as if to say, “We made this. Aren’t we clever?” No. You’re not clever. What you are is criminally inconsiderate, and I’m being generous here.

Babies should be reared on battery farms and only allowed out once they have learnt to harness the destructive power of their vocal chords.

Oh, look. It dropped its dummy. The mother picks it up. But she’s staring slack-jawed at rugby on the TV and sticks the dummy into its ear, then its eye. Eventually she plugs its noise-hole. It makes a sound like a wild pig being suffocated by a boa constrictor.

She removes the dummy and starts kissing it on its nasty little mouth. Their lips are lashed together for so long that I begin to wonder if she’s blowing it up. The creature changes colour. By now it’s twice the size it was when it came in. I cover my laptop in case it explodes.

Off to my left, the estate agent is making sure the entire suburb gets to hear about the quote he got on roof tiles that blew off in the storm. His appalling wife is dressed like a lumberjack. She has a voice like an angle grinder cutting into a sheep’s skull.

To my right is a young couple – not quite black diamonds, but certainly getting there. Black cubic zirconia, perhaps. They are drinking coffee and flicking through their iPhones. They haven’t said a word to each other since they arrived. The tension is killing me.

I want to lean over and introduce a topic of conversation. “So how about them strikes, eh? Bloody darkies. Ruining this country for everyone.” That should get things going.

Even when plates heaped with what look like a zebra’s rib cage arrive, they pick desultorily at them in silence. No mess, no fuss. Put a plate of ribs in front of a hungry white man and when he leaves he will have to be taken into the parking lot, stripped naked and hosed down. Maybe that’s just me.

There’s a man sitting at the bar wearing a baseball cap and a pair of cargo shorts big enough to fit a baby elephant. His blubber flows over the sides of the chair like something out of a Salvador Dali painting.

Lava man is having some kind of bar snack and yawning as he eats. I’m surprised he’s not a tourist attraction in these parts. See the amazing human hippo! Wait for him to yawn and try to throw a chicken wing into his mouth! Prizes to be won! Could be Ezemvelo KZN Wildlife’s biggest cash cow yet.

Then there are the gay dudes behind me. One is white and Afrikaans and the other brown and Afrikaans. They fill me with hope for this country. At the same time, they fill me with revulsion. Such are the quandaries faced by the English-speaking liberal.

The bruin-ou’s accent is easy on the ear. Got a bit of Cape lyricism to it. But the wit-ou? Sweet Jesus. He looks like one of those teenage farm boys with the strength and intellect of an ox. His consonants are so guttural that I begin to think he is choking on his pork medallions.

I know that if I pick him up from behind and give him the Heimlich manoeuvre, and I’m wrong, he will consider it to be foreplay and I won’t be able to go to the toilet again. Better that he chokes.

The waiter tells me it’s happy hour. At midnight? Where the hell am I? Paradise? Make it a double, comrade. And don’t spare the horses.

Trovato In National Honours Outrage

This is the fourth consecutive year in which I have neither killed nor raped anyone. I have refrained from hijacking cars and taking hostages. I have paid my taxes and some of my traffic fines. I continue to withdraw money from ATMs instead of blowing them up and I hardly ever shoplift.

And yet I have been overlooked for national honours once again.

I don’t know how much longer I can maintain this aberrant lifestyle without some kind of acknowledgement from the government.

Any idiot can see I am more deserving than many of the recipients on this year’s list. I should at the very least have been given the Order of Mendi for Bravery.

Even though I failed to rescue anyone from drowning, which appears to be the criteria for this award, it wasn’t through a lack of trying.

I spent almost every day on the beach looking for people to save. Apart from two attention-seeking tail-gunners in Speedos pretending to drown, everyone swam about with no trouble at all. Damn their selfish eyes.

I even offered a farm boy R27 to allow me to carry him from the surf and give him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. There may have been a misunderstanding because he resisted fiercely when I moved in to deliver the kiss of life. An angry mob chased me off the beach as if I were little more than a common pervert.

I should also have been in line for the Order of Ikhamanga. The government’s information website says: “The Ikhamanga (Strelitzia) plant symbolises the unique beauty of achievements by men and women who carry colourful South African aloft in the fields of creativity, arts, culture, music, journalism and sport.”

I would carry anyone aloft, regardless of their colour, if it meant getting the recognition I deserve. Well, maybe not anyone. It would be a struggle to lift, say, Khulubuse Zuma without the help of a block-and-tackle.

But struggle is what these honours are all about. Johnny Clegg struggles to lift his foot above his head these days and Cheeky Watson struggles to keep his son, Luke, from vomiting on the Springbok jersey. That’s why they were both on the list.

Being dead doesn’t seem to hurt your chances of receiving the Order of the Baobab. Ten of the 16 recipients are no longer on this mortal plane, including Sebebubijwasekgogobontharile Moroka, who almost certainly introduced himself as James when dealing with white people.

I want my award now, dammit, not after I’ve been put in a box. On the other hand, at least my death would mean something to my family.

While we patriots pay perfunctory obeisance to our most recently anointed heroes and heroines, perhaps we could also look at replacing some of our national symbols.

The springbok, for instance, is no longer suitable as our national animal. For a start, it is the dumbest animal in the bushveld. They practically beg to be shot between the eyes, cut into strips and eaten as biltong or even worn by the president at his next nuptials.

Now that we are 18, we should have an animal more closely representing our ethos as a nation. The hyena would be a good choice. They organise themselves into territorial clans of related individuals and so do we – except we call them government departments. The centre of clan activity is the den (Union Buildings).

Like many of our business leaders, spotted hyenas are opportunistic scavengers. No meat too rotten, no tender too tainted. We also both enjoy a bit of a laugh now and then, usually at someone else’s expense.

They have large ears and thick, short necks, as do many of our farmers. And, much like us, the female outweighs and dominates the male. Needless to say, the male plays no part in raising its offspring. You don’t get more South African than that.

Moving on to our national bird.

The blue crane simply has to go. What manner of bird stands a metre in its socks? That’s just silly. It has longer legs than some of my ex-girlfriends. Unlike my exes, it doesn’t have much to say. We need to dump this manically depressed introvert before it bores itself into extinction and embarrasses the lot of us.

I nominate the African crake. They make an unlovely rasping sound, have bloodshot eyes and their plumage is the colour of a soiled nappy. However, once the farms have collapsed, the president will be able to say: “Let them eat crake.”

Alternatively, it could be the white-bellied bustard. This is not to be confused with the yellow-bellied white bastard, among whom I count myself.

We need to replace the galjoen as our national fish because he is Afrikaans and, quite frankly, we have bent over backwards to accommodate this dysfunctional demographic.

What’s more, it is illegal to buy or sell galjoen. We might as well have heroin as our national fish.

I say out with the cheerless galjoen and in with the electric eel. It could represent our foreign policy – hard to pin down and delivers a nasty shock when you finally grasp it.

The national tree is the yellowwood. This is 2012 – who cares if its wood is yellow, blue or brown? This is a racist tree and should be chopped down on sight.

As for the protea, the less said the better. This ugly brute gives flowers a bad name. It should be struck from our list of national symbols without delay and replaced by the magnificent Cannabis sativa.

This botanical wonder sports an attractive five-bladed leaf and can grow to heights exceeding 10 000 metres. It has small, sticky buds that attract birds, bees, hippies and policemen.

Lastly, the national anthem should be converted into one minute of silence and the national flag should be white because, at some point, we are going to have to surrender.