Tag: Donald Trump

Dead elephants tell no tales

US President Donald Trump is reversing an Obama-era ban on hunters importing trophies of elephants killed in Zambia and Zimbabwe. Are his sons planning another hunt? Here’s a letter I wrote to the little fuckers in 2012.

 

Hey boys!

Just wanted to congratulate you on your successful hunting trip to Zimbabwe.

Our papers have been full of pictures of you guys holding up dead leopards in a pink mist of vapourised waterbuck. You’re real heroes in these parts, let me tell you. There has been a bit of criticism, but it’s coming mainly from white bunny-hugging do-gooders who think wild animals are there to be photographed instead of destroyed like the vermin they are. Bloody liberals.

I see you managed to bag three of the Big Five. Well done! But what stopped you from going for a full house? You got the buffalo, elephant and leopard, but missed the rhino and lion. And you call yourselves Trumps? Just kidding.

I’m sure it’s not your fault. I bet the organisers of the hunt failed to tether them securely and they escaped before you could drive up and shoot them in the face.

Donald Jr., I particularly enjoyed the picture of you holding an elephant’s tail in one hand and a knife in the other. You can even see the legs of the elephant lying on the ground to prove that you got it off the animal and not from a curio shop.

I bet you also cut off its trunk and poked it through your zipper and pretended you had a giant willy. I certainly would have.

I liked the shot of you guys posing next to a crocodile strung up from a tree. It reminded me of those old pictures from your Deep South. Now that the darkies are off-limits, croc-lynching could be the next big thing in Alabama. Wanna be partners? You gun ’em down, I string ’em up.

By the way, did you know that we also have a Small Five that are tremendous fun to kill? Meerkats are my best. If you’re quick, you can run up and kick them before they bolt for cover.

Your brother, Eric, could have been waiting in an imaginary end zone to catch the flying ‘kat. Touchdown! American football, Africa style. What’s not to love?

Another of my favourites is the tortoise. Hunting tortoises is usually done when you have a hangover. I’m sure you had lots of those on your trip because the only way to survive Africa is to drink heavily while firing blindly into the night.

So what you do is set up your chair within shouting distance of a reliable servant – you don’t want to run out of Bloody Marys – and wait for a tortoise to come along.

Put your foot on his back to stop him from getting away. This is where it gets tricky. He will have retracted himself, making a clean head shot impossible.

Don’t shoot him in the shell if you plan on using him as a paper-weight. They shatter easily. Rather take a leaf out of your father’s book: cut off his lights and water and starve him out.

You said the local villagers were overjoyed at getting the meat from your hunt. And why wouldn’t they be? Leopard carpaccio garnished with a sprinkling of civet cat and drizzled with crocodile jus doesn’t appear on the menu in the Matetsi area all that often.

When I read that the hunt organisers were called Hunting Legends, I thought they were offering legends like President Robert Mugabe. Now there’s a trophy you should have on your wall.

But I suppose he would put up too much of a fight. Not that you lads aren’t bok for a fight. Far from it. A kudu is a hell of an adversary. You were just fortunate to come across one that was drugged.

To be honest, a lot of the wild animals in southern Africa are on drugs these days. They also lack any real work ethic and spend most of the day sleeping. Smelly freeloaders. No wonder we kill them.

You were also lucky to have survived shooting a tusker. Many elephants, particularly in Zimbabwe, are known to explode without warning and, even from a distance of 300 metres, you could easily have lost a leg. Or worse, had your hair messed up. Gel is hard to come by in the bush.

I’m not much of a hunter myself, but I think I know why you boys enjoy it. For a start, Eric is a girl’s name and he has a lot to prove. And your name is Donald Jr., and yet it is Eric who looks more like your father. No wonder you’re angry.

You said the money you paid for the hunt will be used to fund nature conservation in Zimbabwe. I presume by “fund nature conservation” you mean “arm Zanu-PF veterans”. That’s okay. We understand code in these parts. No names, no pack drill.

My wife, Brenda, says you’re both latent homosexuals. As my Uncle Pervy used to say, “Better latent than never.” Anyway, you’ll be happy to know that I beat her soundly for her insolence.

I must say, though, Eric, you do look pretty damn sexy with that leopard draped over your shoulders. It brings out your eyes.

And Donald Jr., seeing you straddling that dead buffalo makes doggie style seem positively Christian.

Y’all come back again!

Unknown-1Unknown

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Blowhard vs Dotard

Dear Kim Jong-un, Supreme Leader of the Glorious Democratic People’s Republic of Korea, Invincible Ninja Assassin and Grandmaster Flash of the Nuclear Holocaust,

Well done on telling that power-crazed manchild with ridiculous hair where to get off. Don’t let it bother you that some people are using the exact same line in messages to Donald Trump. He is a pale imitation of the real thing. You are a riddle wrapped in a dumpling inside a meatball.

I watched Trump addressing the United Nations last week and realised that by calling you Rocket Man, Trump was obviously threatening to deploy Elton John to Pyongyang. The detonation of a gay bomb of this magnitude would destroy North Korea’s youth, three of whom aren’t currently serving in the army. The last thing you want is your 1st Infantry Division sashaying into battle while humming the theme song from Yentl and thrusting their hips provocatively in the direction of Japan. As it is, that goosestep is perilously close to a showgirl’s high-kick.

You’re a man who knows the importance of taking a stand and sticking to his guns. While you were threatening to bomb America, do you know what our president was doing? He took time off from robbing the nation to sign some kind of lame treaty prohibiting the use of nuclear weapons. It’s easy when you have a uranium stockpile that can fit into a matchbox. We might as well sign a treaty prohibiting the use of exploding sheep. It’s utterly meaningless.

I hope you’re not going to let Trump get away with his empty threat to “totally destroy” North Korea. In this game of oneupmanship you have to move fast. I suggest you threaten to blow up the entire northern hemisphere. And maybe the moon. It’s the only language he understands.

Trump’s hawkish handmaiden at the UN, Nikki Haley, said your weapons tests were “exhausting conventional diplomacy”. You know what would be really exhausting? Coming home every night to Nikki bloody Haley and her glittery eyed defence of a man with the intellect and physique of a pile of builder’s rubble.

Do you have a wife to come home to after a long day of stroking hard missiles and gasping as they burst from their fecund burrows? Please don’t think I am judging you. If you come home to a bed full of boys covered in puppy fat and baby oil, that is your business.

Did you catch whatshisface from Iran speaking at the UN? He was rabbiting on about moderation and democracy or some such rubbish. Sounded like appeasement to me. The man has plenty of enriched bomb fodder. He should act accordingly. Put Tehran on your to-bomb list at once.

I hope you have enough intercontinental ballistic missiles, old boy. It would be frightfully embarrassing to run out after blowing up Guam and Alaska before even getting around to rogue nations like New Zealand.

Our President Zuma also spoke at the UN. If the nuke idea doesn’t come together, you could always use him as your secret weapon. Unleash him on the USA. He’d bore them to death in no time at all. I didn’t watch his speech out of a need for self-preservation. Besides, someone else would’ve written it all for him. The only original words that ever come out of his mouth are, “It wasn’t me”, “Take it on appeal” and “Where’s my cut?”

By the way, well done on executing that uncle of yours. I never did like the look of him. What put you off? Did you catch him smiling? Not applauding one of your spectacular public appearances? Perhaps you were simply pruning the family. Weeding out the annoying ones. I know I’ve thought of it. You also had your half-brother whacked at Kuala Lumpur airport a few months ago while he was trying to sneak off to Disneyland in Tokyo. I hear you used a liquid nerve agent. Nice work. Classy. It’s obvious he had to be stopped. Allow this sort of gallivanting and the next thing you know your semi-sibling is getting the imperial haircut and you’re hanging by your heels having your throat slit.

You’re a creative man, Kim. I like that about you. For starters, you had your defence minister shot to death with anti-aircraft guns. It must’ve been a majestic sight. That’ll teach him to fall asleep in a meeting. You also obliterated one of your army officers with a mortar round and used a flamethrower on your deputy public security minister. This is out-of-the-box thinking and I look forward to hearing about your next revolutionary idea for executing friends and family. You know what would be really awesome? If you strapped someone to the nose of your next missile. Then again, you give one person a free overseas flight with the promise of a quick, painless death and others would quickly queue up for the chance.

If Trump finally does go batshit crazy, you and your 25 million people could always sneak across the demilitarised zone one moonless night and mingle. No offence, but you all do look alike, don’t you? North. South. It makes no difference. You’re Koreans. You’re almost family. A lot of you are family. The Americans would never be able to track everyone down. You might have to change your hairstyle. And shed a bit of weight.

Look, you’re never going to be the next Dennis Rodman, but you are Rocket Man. You drink and smoke heavily and show a genuine passion for casual homicide. Hell, learn how to braai and you could almost pass for South African.

When things quieten down, as they will after an intercontinental nuclear shindig, you should pop in for a visit. Our people could learn from your work ethic. It’s not for nothing that you are chairman of the Workers’ Party. We have more shirkers and lurkers than workers but we sure as hell know how to party. You might have to bring your own teenage virgins. We’re fresh out at the moment, thanks largely to our school teachers.

Good luck, Lil’ Kim. I get the feeling you’re going to need it.

Rocket Man

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

The intelligent designer is a moron

The stomach-churning, brain-curdling news that Donald Trump is the 45th American president continues to give rise to all manner of existentialist questions like: What the fuck? Is this really happening? Is there a God? And if there is, what the hell is he thinking?

I know feminists prefer referring to God as she, but in the wake of recent events, they might want to change their position. No self-respecting female creator of every creeping thing that creepeth, flying thing that flyeth and fishy thing that swimmeth could possibly have had a hand in the elevation of this ludicrous tangerine-coated semi-literate superpatriot to the most powerful position on earth.

If I’m right – and there’s no reason to think I’m not – then God is not only a man, but he is an arrogant, combative God who won’t listen to reason. What am I talking about. You just have to read the Bible to get an idea of where the Almighty stands on a whole range of issues. He sure ain’t no bleeding heart liberal, that’s for sure. No wonder he had his hippy son whacked by the Jews. Or was it the Romans? Jewish Romans, maybe.

Details are sketchy. Ballpoint pens hadn’t been invented yet and the only reporter on the scene got drunk that night and lost the tablets he’d spent all day carving.

Editor: “Are you sure this is what Pontius Pilate said?”

Reporter: “Yes, of course. Well, close enough. I’m paraphrasing here.”

Pontius: “Fake news! Feed him to the lions.”

Fast-forward a couple of thousand years and not much has changed. The internet is groaning under an avalanche of slander, subterfuge and lies so bald they make Lord Voldemort look like Zack Galifianakis.

Donald Trump’s penchant for prevarication has got journalists fact-checking like never before. The problem is, Trump supporters care little for the facts. And why should they, when their hero makes it up as he goes along? Trump and his inner coven are utterly shameless when it comes to subverting the truth and his supporters couldn’t care less. Or, as the Americans would have it, could care less. Which makes about as much sense as Kellyanne Melted-Horseface before she’s had her meds.

Tom Rosenstiel, director of the American Press Institute, questions if we’re already in a post fact-check world. “There’s a difference between facts and knowledge. I can tell you your facts are wrong but not change your belief.”

Which takes us back to religion. Atheists, when they’re not busy drinking the blood of virgin sacrifices, know there’s little point in badgering the offensively religious with science. Their belief will not change. It’s called faith. Which, as we know, has less than perfect vision. Fact carries a baseball bat. Faith, a white stick.

Did Schrodinger even have a cat? We can’t be sure. What we are sure about is that America’s new Secretary for Education is a woman by the name of Betsy DeVos. She’s Cruella De Vil in ugly shoes and it’s only a matter of time before she starts making lampshades from the skins of young public schoolboys.

She’s one of the billionaires with whom her president is repopulating the Washington swamp now that it’s been drained of everything true and good. She said not too long ago that guns should be allowed in schools for protection against “potential grizzlies”. I don’t know if she meant actual bears or if it was a euphemism for rappers, pot-smokers and the homeless.

Speaking at an evangelical event a few years ago, she proclaimed, “Our desire is to confront the culture in which we all live today in ways which will continue to help advance God’s kingdom.”

These are bowel-loosening words for us heathen scum living in the relative safety of Africa, but far more so for the juvenile heretics and pagans trapped in the American public schooling system. Let’s go back to the Middle Ages and do it right this time, goddammit!

One thing you can be sure of is that Cretinella DeVos will not be pushing schools to include evolutionary biology in their syllabuses. Syllabi. Whatever.

Four in ten Americans believe God created humans ten thousand years ago. The hardliners say six thousand. Half of Americans believe humans evolved, but then ruin it by saying God guided the process.

Then there’s the intelligent design movement. They think they’re smarter than the creationists, but the jury’s out on that. Not really. The jury came back a long time ago. I’m just trying really hard not to offend anyone.

I don’t feel like I’m the creation of an intelligent designer at all. I drink too much, never watch rugby and pretend that my dogs aren’t mine when they defecate on the beach. I don’t give to charity and I shout at old people when they drive badly. I have way too many design flaws and should have been recalled long before now.

Maybe that’s what death is. You get recalled because you are defective. After your warranty is withdrawn, you line up outside the intelligent designer’s workshop along with all the other broken people. The queue must be horrendous. Bring a book.

After waiting a few hundred years, the intelligent designer hoists you on to his workbench, clamps you in his divine vice and gives you a tweaking with his celestial spanner and supernatural screwdriver. It’s gets a bit tricky from this point on. The only way he can get you back into the race is by rebirthing you, but now the good ship Faith is drifting dangerously close to the rocky shores of Reincarnation. So scrap that idea.

Perhaps the designer simply strips you of your consciousness and tosses your carcass into an unmarked grave on the desolate outskirts of the Pantene Nebula.

I don’t really feel like God made me, either. God has made some terrible mistakes and there are certainly days I think I might be one of them. But doubts do creep in. I mean, really, make the earth in just six days? It takes me two weeks to put shelves up.

If God has a plan for all of us, as the Christians would have it, then why won’t he give me an indication of what the hell it is? Maybe he already has. Still, going to the beach or sitting in pubs writing rubbish doesn’t seem like much of a plan. Then again, the Christians don’t claim he has a fabulously awesome plan for everyone.

I think maybe God has fallen asleep, because sometimes the sound of him snoring comes out of my bum. Or maybe God is speaking through my bum. Maybe I have fallen asleep and he is telling me to wake up and be a better person. Maybe I should put my bum on eBay.

As I’ve already mentioned, most Americans don’t believe in evolution. This is not necessarily because they are in-bred reactionary rednecks, but rather because scientists are pathetic when it comes to marketing their discoveries.

The remnants of a five-million-year-old Homo are dug up in one or other godforsaken flyblown corner of Africa and a man in a white coat appears on television squinting nervously into the camera, saying, “Um. Sorry to bother everybody, but we seem to have found something that could be, well, rather important.”

What they should be doing is dressing up in yellow seersucker suits and glittering top hats and taking the bones on the road. Turn it into an event. A bacchanalian carnival of discovery. They should ride through towns on the backs of painted elephants, drinking champagne from the bottle and brandishing the skull of the flat-faced man of Kenya while shouting through megaphones fashioned from narwhal tusks, “So where’s your god now?”

In the meantime, I have applied for membership to the fastest growing carbohydrate-based religion in the world. Pastafarians believe the Flying Spaghetti Monster created life on earth 4000 years ago when very drunk. I think they may be on to something.

In the words of church founder, Bobby Henderson, “We tend to be very secretive, as many people claim our beliefs are not substantiated by observable evidence. What these people don’t understand is that He built the world to make us think the earth is older than it really is. For example, a scientist may perform a carbon-dating process on an artifact. He finds that approximately 75% of the Carbon-14 has decayed by electron emission to Nitrogen-14, and infers that this artifact is approximately 10 000 years old, as the half-life of Carbon-14 appears to be 5 730 years. But what our scientist does not realise is that every time he makes a measurement, the Flying Spaghetti Monster is there changing the results with His Noodly Appendage.”

I am particularly drawn to this church because every Friday is a religious holiday. Also, heaven has a beer volcano and a stripper factory.

trovatonoodlyappendage

The Reluctant Recyclist

I went to my local hardware this week to speak to someone about building a nuclear fallout shelter. There was a lot of head-shaking and shrugging until someone suggested Tom. Maybe Tom can help, they said. Tom was clearly the go-to guy for difficult customers. Tom looked as if he might have advised the ancient Romans on what they’d need for an aqueduct.

“Don’t get up,” I said.

“I am up,” croaked Tom. “If it’s aqueducts you’re after …”

I began explaining my need for a nuclear fallout shelter, briefly sketching the consequences of a Trump presidency and why there was a very real chance of millions of people dying in a giant thermonuclear fireball before the month was out.

“Good man, that Trump,” said Tom. “Damn good man.”

I took him by the sagging folds of his filthy throat. “Listen to me, you demented old troll,” I shouted. “Trump is not a good man. He is a bad man. Say it. Say Donald Trump is a bad man. Say it or I swear I will …”

He made some sort of rattling sound in the back of his disgusting throat. That was good enough. I dropped him and hoofed it out of that toxic hotbed of rightwing zealotry.

Back home, I opened a half-jack of Klipdrift and continued researching my academic paper on health and safety issues surrounding the increasingly popular sport of tribadism. I’m doing my Masters. Doing my Johnson, too. It saves time. Things were going swimmingly until I noticed something called Miss Earth South Africa trending.

Like the malignant narcissist Donald Trump, I do all my research on Twitter and Facebook because I can’t concentrate for longer than 30 seconds at a time. My brain is like the Large Hadron Collider but instead of atoms, I have billions of images of talking dogs, sleeping cats, sloths, butchered rhinos, babies of all species, goals being scored, cars being crashed and other people’s dinners careening into each other at supersonic speed. Trump is extreme. He’s thrown Fox News into his mental Hadron Collider. Now and then his brain accidentally cobbles together a half-formed thought which he then acts on by signing an executive order before getting sucked back into the berserk fantasy world he mistakes for reality.

I took a break from my research and went off to investigate Miss Earth South Africa. It sounded promising. Great things can come from beauty contests. Donald Trump, for instance, owned the Miss Universe pageant for ten years. Now look what he is – the world’s most powerful madman.

I rather like my women earthy. I don’t mean they should be covered in mud with spiders nesting in their armpits, but there’s something about a woman with flowing skirts, untamed hair and the soul of a gypsy (without their penchant for thievery) dancing barefoot beneath a full moon. Throw in a bit of howling and I’m finished.

I imagined Miss Earth South Africa to be of this mold. Someone sensitive to the needs of the planet but, ultimately, more sensitive to my needs. It wouldn’t do to have the earth coming before me, so to speak. Nor would it do to have a girlfriend who, on a Sunday morning, might say things like, “Hey! Instead of having sex, let’s rather convert that energy into making a mulch pit! Good idea, right?” No, it’s not. It’s a terrible idea.

I was beginning to resent Miss Earth South Africa before I’d even met her. What did she think? That I’d rather spend the morning up to my elbows in decomposing vegetation than have scorching hot bonobo sex washed down with lashings of ice cold beer? Well, she can bloody well forget about birthday or anniversary presents from me, that’s for sure.

I tried to hunt her down to offer her a piece of my mind and other parts of my body but, if her website is anything to go by, she might not even exist.

“The Miss Earth South Africa is a programme that aims to empower young South African women with the knowledge and platform to create a sustainable difference in our plight to combat the destruction of our natural heritage.”

I felt my loins cooling. Words like “empower” and “platform” are passion killers. Words like “combat” and “destruction” are quite sexy, though. Although I was a little bit turned on by the absence of spelling errors, my libido sustained a fatal body blow by “… a sustainable difference in our plight to combat …” It’s a sentence that belongs in calipers.

I care about the planet. I really do. I don’t even have an oven, freezer, dishwasher, heater, fan, iron, washing machine, tumble dryer, sandwich maker, blender or electric gate. I don’t have a bath. My shower runs off gas. I have four working lights and no telephone line or alarm system. If you’re picturing some kind of wretched, untethered misanthrope hunkered down in a wooden shack in the milkwoods, you’re on the right track.

All of my neighbours have elephantine carbon footprints compared to mine, which is the size of a field mouse’s paw, but the day they discovered I don’t recycle they began looking at me as if I were a selfish monster single-handedly jeopardising their children’s future. Please. That’s Jacob Zuma’s job, not mine.

Although I’m currently on the Cape peninsula, I come from Durban where it’s too hot to bother about separating the garbage. We sweat. We battle to breathe. What little energy we have left at the end of the day is expended on yawning, swatting mosquitoes and taking potshots at housebreakers. Or people who look like they might be housebreakers. Or visitors.

It’s different in Cape Town. People here have nothing but energy. And money. And dogs that never shut the fuck up. They had me down as the enemy the moment I dragged my bulging black garbage bag onto the pavement. They looked at each other, then back at me. Where is his bulging see-through plastic bag? Where is his little Checkers packet? My eyes narrowed. Their eyes narrowed. If we had been Mexicans, it would have been a proper stand-off. There would’ve been insults flung, challenges to duels, knives drawn, sultry women cheering us on. Instead, we shook our heads and went back inside.

A week later, some or other Prius-driving face-washing do-gooder left a clear plastic bag on my gate. Always up for new experiences, I thought I’d give it a shot.

I was surprised at how quickly it filled up with microwaveable containers, newspapers, traffic fines, mutton curry tins, beer bottles and mutilated sex toys. But what really surprised me was that I needed just one small Checkers for the biodegradable stuff. I took them both out on garbage day and stood there looking at them, raising my eyebrows and nodding, hoping for an epiphany that never really came. My neighbours seemed happy, though. One gave me a thumbs up which, thanks to Donald Trump, has become the new Nazi salute.

I gave him the traditional one-fingered Durban salute and sloped back to my warm brandy and eco-friendly shack.

An open letter to Donald Trump

Dear Glorious Leader of the Free World,

I kneel before you with my unworthy eyes averted so your magnificent radiance does not blind me like it blinded all those people who said the crowd at your inauguration wasn’t all that big. Poor, deluded fools. Your crowd was bigly. Beyond bigly. It was the massivest crowd in the history of crowds. Huger even than your giant moon-sized hands. Anyone who disagrees is telling alternative truths and should be flogged and deported to Mexico.

You must be the only politician ever who, after winning an election, has demanded an investigation into voter fraud. I’m sure you’ll find that Hillary only won the popular vote after she sent Bill to the polling station three million times in different disguises. There’s no way the nasty woman is more popular than you are. You are the popularest person to walk the earth since before the Jesus time.

I am delighted to see that you are devoting your first few days in office to undoing everything the evil Muslim terrorist Barack Obama did in his eight years. The damage that man has done. He wasn’t even in office very long before he ended the 2008 recession. What madness is that? Recessions are good. America does the best recessions. Yours will be awesome.

Then he goes and reduces the nuclear warhead stockpile by ten percent. You should have had him shot for treason right there on the south lawn when you had the chance. Now you have to waste time replacing all those warheads. As if you don’t have more important things to do. Like watching Fox and tweeting.

On your very first day, you removed all that filth from the White House website about climate change. Good for you. Polar bears, like Meryl Streep, are overrated. Your slogan is America First, not Planet Earth First. As you have so rightly pointed out, global warming is a hoax. Science is a hoax. You need to ban science before it gets out of control.

I’m glad to hear the Dakota Access Pipeline is back on. Them Red Indians are just gonna have to suck it up. They have plenty of other sacred burial sites. And they can get their water from the 7-11, like the rest of America. Pipelines, not people, are what make a country great.

Well done on putting an end to that disgraceful Affordable Care Act. You need to replace it with the Affordable We Don’t Care Act. You can even drop the Affordable part. If you can’t afford it, you don’t deserve to be an American. President Donald Trump today signed into law the We Don’t Care Act. It certainly has a ring to it.

I hear your National Parks Service has gone rogue and is tweeting from unofficial accounts. Deploy the flamethrowers and smoke ’em out. Even better, unleash the old Agent Orange (I mean no disrespect here). If it worked in ‘Nam, it can work in Yellowstone. Bring in the snipers. You can’t have your employees disrespecting you. You get enough of that from the rest of the world.

The same goes for your Fish and Wildlife Service. It’s ridiculous that fish get their own service. Fish is a course, for fuck’s sake. It’s an option. They spend their lives lolling about in rivers and lakes contributing nothing to the economy. They don’t even fear us. The same goes for caribou and wolves and things. If they can’t make money or shoot a gun, there’s no point in protecting them.

Listen, you need to do something about that Sean Spicer idiot. For a start, Sean is a girl’s name. You need journalists to trust him and nobody trusts a man with a girl’s name. Look at Marilyn Manson. Tracy Morgan. Robin Thicke. Speaking of thick, Spicer doesn’t strike me as the sharpest tool in your manicure set. Also, he’s weak. He allows himself to be bullied by the press corps. Know what I’d do if I had his job and a reporter asked me a difficult question? I’d take out my gun and shoot the reporter in the face. That’s what I’d do. Then I’d ask if anyone else had a question. You have to be tough with journalists. It’s the only language they understand.

As for your advisor Kellyann Conway, is she even real? I don’t mean to be rude, but it looks as if her head is made from bits of other people’s faces. Her only saving grace is that she’s blonde and maintains a charming flirtation with reality.

Speaking of which, how is Melania enjoying being First Lady? I hope she’s perked up a bit. She certainly didn’t seem to be having much fun at the inauguration. I’d watch that one, if I were you. The Slovenians are a shifty bunch at the best of times and she could turn on you at any time. Smart move keeping her locked up in the Trump Tower. That might not be enough to keep Bill away, though. Did you see the way he was looking at her? Hillary certainly did. He was actually licking his lips. Then again, the old perv is getting on a bit and could just as easily have been imagining her as a giant blue macaroon.

While we’re on the subject, who gave all those crazy women permission to protest on the day after your inauguration? Did they even have permission? This is the problem with women today. We must return to the good old days when women needed permits to get a job or even leave the house.

Obama has let them off the leash and we need to move quickly to rein them in. You’ve made a good start by banning funding for abortions. Maybe this will once and for all get the message across that women’s bodies are not their own. They are ours. It says so in the Bible. Deuteronomy 23:1 “No man whose testicles have been crushed or whose organ has been cut off may become a member of the Assembly of God.” Sorry. I can’t find the bit about women’s bodies.

What’s up with the Netherlands? Apparently they’re setting up an overseas abortion fund to counteract your ban. If you’re going to bomb your enemies alphabetically – and there’s no reason you shouldn’t – you might as well start with Amsterdam. Knowing the Dutch, they’d probably enjoy it.

Smart move making Steve Bannon Reichsführer of the Schutzstaffel. I beg your pardon, National Security Council. Ignore the critics. It’s not as if you’re modeling your administration on the Third Reich. It’s just good ol’ Bannon. How much damage can one Nazi really cause?

Anyway, I have to go and lie down for a bit. Just a quick request. Can you come over here and give some of our people a lesson on how to fight an election? These jokers had millions to run a covert smear campaign against the opposition but then spent all the money on expensive clothes and imported whisky. They couldn’t even afford office supplies once they’d finished stuffing themselves on donor money. Amateurs.

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A year of singing, dancing and improvised explosive devices

The generation known as Millennials seems relatively unmoved by the wave of carnage that swept through the ranks of the rich and famous in 2016. Leonard who? Carrie Fisher the astronaut? Princess Leia’s from, er, Sweden, right? But it’s okay. Their 2016 will come. Around 2056, I expect, when their idols and heroes start dying.

I can’t name any offhand because I don’t know any celebrities in their 20s. Perhaps there aren’t any. Perhaps that dream died when Britney Spears allowed the world a rare glimpse of her pet beaver. With any luck, though, having Donald Trump in the White House will once and for all put an end to the myth that wealth makes gods of men. Or, in the case of women, looks and sometimes even talent.

Speaking of which, I read a tweet two days after Christmas. Look, I wasn’t well. Sure, I could have picked up my urine-soaked copy of Tolstoy’s Big Book of Jokes from the bathroom floor, but I could barely cope with Twitter. It was a tweet from what I took to be a Trump parody account. It read, “The cheap 12 inch sq. marble tiles behind speaker at UN always bothered me. I will replace with beautiful large marble slabs if they ask me.” The laughter died in my throat when I realised the tweet genuinely was his own. The world is in meltdown and he’s thinking how best to redecorate the United Nations?

His state visits are going to be interesting. “Yeah, yeah, civil war, refugees, blah blah blah got it. Know what worries me? Your curtains. They clash. Not good.”

I’m not too worried that this gibbering orange scrotum on legs will start the third world war. I predict he’ll be impeached or assassinated within a year. I hope it’s impeached because we can still have many more years of fun poking him with a stick and seeing what pops out.

This was going to be a column about predictions, but, quite frankly, real life keeps overtaking satire at such a terrifying speed that I can’t possibly catch up, let alone overtake.

I do, however, predict that the leaders of Islamic State will, in August, abandon the idea of establishing a caliphate and go into show business. ISIS – The Musical will open on Broadway in November. It will be choreographed by Ivana Trump.

My money is on 2017 being a damn fine year. Mostly for the Anglo-Saxon tribe, of course, which makes it no different to any other year, really. But opportunities for others will arise, so if you’re not on a terrorist watch list or in a squatter camp, prison or city under siege, you better be woke or you gonna miss da bus.

One of the reasons I know for sure that 2017 is bound to be better than that utter bastard of a year whose name we shall not speak is that the highly respected Pantone Institute has announced that Greenery is its colour of the year. This is excellent news.

The colour of the year in 2014 was Radiant Orchard and tall buildings had to be fenced off to prevent women from jumping to their deaths after discovering Radiant Orchard made them look fat.

In 2015 it was Marsala, which I’ve always associated more with chicken bunnychows than carpets. Last year Pantone foolishly broke with tradition and rashly blended two shades. Rose Quartz and Serenity clearly angered the gods of colour who wasted no time in killing David Bowie and helping Donald Trump win the elections. Thanks Pantone.

And what the hell kind of colour is Greenery anyway?

Pantone executive director Leatrice Eiseman (what the hell kind of name is Leatrice?) explains why the shade was chosen. “Greenery bursts forth in 2017 to provide us with the reassurance we yearn for amid a tumultuous social and political environment.”

Leatrice, I’m all for bursting forth, but I am colour-blind and if I inadvertently pick, say, Reddery instead of Greenery, it doesn’t matter how much yearning I do, I’m just not going to get the reassurance I need. I’m changing my opinion. This is bad news for everyone. Being as environmentally friendly as an oil slick on fire, Donald Trump will hopefully move quickly to crush this liberal mumbo jumbo underfoot.

It wouldn’t be a new year if the Chinese weren’t involved. It’s not always about rhino horns or badger spleens, you know. There are some things that can’t be eaten or traded. At the end of the month, the Year of the Fire Rooster kicks in. It’s the avian version of the fire pool – not quite what it seems.

If there’s one person on the planet who epitomises a rooster, it’s the next president of the United States. Batshit crazy and dumber than a box of socks. I’m going nowhere. I want to see the mother of all cock fights between Donald and Vladimir when the bromance turns ugly.

For the Feng Shoowee-hey-wowies, 2017s colour is burgundy (none of this Greenery nonsense for them). This year’s crystals are amethyst for dreams and topaz for inspiration. Or, in your case, meth for confidence. Cider is the drink, which you can have with your burgundy. Fragrance for the year is myrrh. Call me. I know a guy who knows this other guy. Best myrrh on the streets. And lucky hours are 5-7pm. This is also Happy Hour at The Shrieking Peanut. Coincidence? I think not.

The UN General Assembly has declared 2017 the International Year of Sustainable Tourism for Development. Pass the Valium. Helping peasants half-mad with malaria and moonshine to sell their clay tortoises and wire cars without getting blown up or ripped off is by far the most pressing issue facing the world this year. The International Year of Fighting Fascism can be put on hold for another decade or two. No rush.

Speaking of valiant but doomed causes, that dying horse Barack Obama aimed one of his last kicks at Israel the other day. America abstained from a Security Council vote and allowed the adoption of a resolution demanding a halt to the building of illegal Jewish settlements in the West Bank and East Jerusalem. Trump tweeted soon afterwards, “Stay strong Israel. January 20th is fast approaching!”

There’s been trouble in those parts ever since Moses was found motherless in the bullrushes, but this loathsome jowly cockwomble is the man to fix it. He’s clearly heard of the two-steak solution and has decided that Israel will get the meat while the Palestinians can have the bones. Can’t get fairer than that.

Buckle up, people. 2017 is going to be a bumpy ride.