Tag: President Barack Obama

Do we panic now or later?

I would like to commend America for alerting its citizens in South Africa to a possible terrorist attack on US interests in our magnificent country. It’s important to take care of one’s own.

The warning also serves as a handy reminder to extremists not to overlook South Africa when it comes time to review their annual programme of action. It doesn’t seem fair that Europe keeps benefitting from all the free publicity generated by the Jihadi. We also want to lead the news on CNN and Sky now and again. As Shakira once so eloquently pointed out, “Tsamina mina, eh eh, waka waka, eh eh, tsamina mina zangalewa, this time for Africa.”

Like any country with a struggling economy, we are deeply grateful for warnings of this nature, largely because of their deleterious effect on tourism, the rand, investor confidence and so on. By contributing to our decline, America is in essence inspiring us to work harder and do better. South Africa thanks you, President Obama.

America has, however, issued similar warnings in the past and nothing happened. Life, as we South Africans laughingly call it, continued as normal. Quite frankly, this sort of let-down is bad for morale and gives extremism a bad name. I hope we don’t see a repeat of 2010 when America issued a security alert and the only thing that got blown up was a soccer ball.

For those who don’t follow the news – President Zuma clearly being one – I shall repeat the warning:

“The U.S. Diplomatic Mission to South Africa has received information that extremists may be targeting U.S. interests in South Africa, to possibly include U.S. government facilities and other facilities identifiable with U.S. business interests. There is no additional information as to timing or potential targeting.”

Nicely handled, Uncle Sam. The delivery is no-nonsense and the substance is, well, there is none to speak of. If America ever knew the timing and target of an attack, they wouldn’t need to issue a warning, would they? They’d just send a Swat team around half an hour earlier and arrest the fuckers when they pitched up with their swarthy looks and sacks of Semtex. And if they did know the time and place, they could hardly tell us because then it would look like a false flag operation and Washington would have to admit that 9/11 was an inside job.

America obviously knows the location of “US interests” in South Africa. So, presumably, do the extremists. Then you get us, wandering about one hand down our broeks and the other clutching a beer, totally oblivious to the whereabouts of these potential targets. This is as it should be. We can’t be trusted with that sort of information. We keep voting for people who keep stealing our money. I wouldn’t trust us, either.

Since the warning is for the benefit of American citizens only, the rest of it also doesn’t apply to us. You’re allowed to read it, though. Just don’t take any notice.

“Review your personal security plans; remain aware and vigilant of your surroundings, including local events, monitor local news stations for updates and follow instructions from local authorities.”

In America, I presume “personal security plans” would include a trip to Spike’s Tactical and picking up an assault rifle called the Crusader. It’s inscribed with Psalm 144:1, which says, “Blessed be the Lord my Rock, who trains my hands for war, my fingers for battle.” I am not making this up.

Here’s the “thinking” behind this, in the words of Ben “Mookie” Thomas, a spokesman for Spike’s Tactical and a former Blackwater security contractor. “We wanted to make sure we built a weapon that would never be able to be used by Muslim terrorists to kill innocent people or advance their radical agenda.”

Meanwhile, there are also plans to spray al-Shabaab terrorists with holy water and drop plastic crucifixes on al-Qaeda bases. I am making this up. I hope.

For some of us, our “personal security plans” include redoubling attempts to get Australian citizenship. My short-term plan is to learn a few phrases of Arabic, fly to Germany, chuck some red wine on my I Heart Damascus T-shirt, run around a bit to work up a sweat, then stagger into Alexanderplatz and claim refugee status. After than, I’ll get the hell out of Germany and move to the Costa Brava where the grass is green and the girls are pretty. I don’t have a long-term plan.

As for “follow instructions from local authorities”, I can’t see it working.

“Pay your electricity bill or we will cut you off.”

“But we’re under attack by Islamic State!”

“Doesn’t matter. Pay your bill.”

On the same day America issued its warning, I got an email from something called USAFIS Immigration Services urging me to give them $29 so that they may prepare and submit my application for a Green Card.

Fantastic. So I’ll leave my country with its, say, ten thousand endangered Americans and move to a country with 320 million of them, all of whom are presumably at constant risk of being shot, stabbed or blown up. That’s like inviting an arachnophobe to move into the spider house.

A Green Card? Not on your life, let alone mine.



The Agony and the Methylenedioxymethamphetamine

Men in white coats tell us that hangovers are caused by the excessive intake of alcohol. Funny, then, how it was men in white coats saying, “Can I bring you another?” that caused all the trouble in the first place.

They would have us believe that the first step towards avoiding a hangover lies in limiting the amount you drink. This is meaningless gibberish and does little to help the person battling to survive a hangover registering 17 on the open-ended Retchter Scale.

Your size, weight, metabolism and body chemistry all play a minor role in how much you can drink. The main factors that dictate consumption levels are financial and emotional. If you are happy and in a good mood, you may find nine beers, three tequila shooters and a double Irish coffee to be an elegant sufficiency. However, if you are feeling downhearted you could easily put away 15 beers, 10 shots, five double vodkas and fuck the Irish.

Some doctors try to tell you that hangovers are caused by dehydration. This is like saying drought is caused by rain and I, for one, will sign any petition that calls for these charlatans to be struck from the medical roll.

Dehydration is caused when the bartender ignores you because he is too busy catching bottles behind his back and flirting with all the pretty young things.

In rare cases dehydration is also caused when a girly little hormone, that is meant to tell the body to conserve water, can’t hold its liquor and passes out on the job. This results in you having to wee every few minutes. With the floodgates open, the body starts borrowing water from less important organs – like the brain. This causes the grey stuff to shrink, which goes a long way towards explaining why stupid people with small brains suffer worse hangovers than smart people with big brains.

All alcohol contains methanol. I would have thought this is a good thing since it is also the fuel used in motocross bikes, and those babies can go! The problem seems to be linked to yet another design flaw in the human body. Instead of using the methanol to accelerate the mind, the body inexplicably breaks it down into formaldehyde and formic acid. Deformed foetuses and pygmy brains are preserved in formaldehyde. Ants and bees secrete formic acid when they attack. What the hell are our bodies thinking?

Some hangover symptoms are in part due to magnesium depletion. As we all know, magnesium constitutes 2% of the Earth’s crust. So before you go drinking, take the time to step out into the garden and grab a handful of that damn fine crust. You will be glad you did. Just remember to wash your face before you walk into the bar. Not many drinkers can handle the sight of a grown man with a soil-encrusted mouth spraying bits of grass and earthworms as he shouts for another round.

A Japanese study showed that taking five grams of chlorella before drinking can prevent hangovers 96% of the time. From what I can make out, chlorella seems to be some sort of algae capable of multiplying faster than that Russian maths freak who turned down a medal and a million dollar prize after proving the Poincare conjecture which states that in three dimensions you cannot transform a doughnut shape into a sphere without ripping it, although any shape without a hole can be stretched or shrunk into a sphere. How would you like to go up in front of a crowd and explain your thinking on that one? No wonder he still lives with his mother.

If the chlorella does nothing for you, try an antioxidant called dimethylaminoethanol. If that doesn’t work, whip up a Bloody Mary and wash down a handful of methylenedioxymethamphetamine. That should cheer you up in no time at all.

The night Bobby dropped in on Osama

An open letter to Robert O’Neill, the American soldier who killed Osama bin Laden


Hey Bobby!

When I saw a headline this week saying, “The Seal who killed Osama”, my first thought was that the true story had finally been told.

Osama had been captured alive and then, on the way back to the States on board the USS Carl Vinson, the rum came out, Osama started cheating in a game of deck quoits and someone threw him overboard as a joke, upon which an elephant seal bit him in half.

You, my friend, are no elephant seal. You are a Navy Seal. Well done.

I am delighted that you have finally admitted to being the one who killed Osama. For some time, a lot of people believed I had done it. Sure, I claimed the credit initially, but who didn’t? I’m glad the pressure is off me and on you.

Pressure, I am sure, is nothing new to you. Jumping out of a chopper in the middle of the night into Osama’s back yard isn’t for the faint-hearted. Especially when the idiot flying the back-up chopper lands it upside down.

I loved Zero Dark Thirty, the movie of the murder. I don’t know how you did it. It couldn’t have been easy to run up three flights of stairs dressed like a cross between an astronaut and Iron Man, and then still manage to put three bullets into Osama’s forehead. I would have had to sit down on the top step and catch my breath.

You were also portrayed in the movie Captain Phillips where you apparently killed Tom Hanks after he took a boatload of Somali fishermen hostage. Nice work. That smarmy bastard had it coming for years. You da captain now.

No, you’re not. You’re a senior chief petty officer. I don’t mean to sound disparaging, but anyone who shot Osama bin Laden shouldn’t be called a petty anything. No wonder you resigned.

I also think it’s shocking that you haven’t been awarded the Purple Heart simply because you were never in action where a colleague was killed or injured. Why the hell didn’t you just shoot one of your buddies in the leg when nobody was looking? You were in Iraq and Afghanistan, for heaven’s sake. You could’ve blamed it on any passing Arab.


I don’t blame you for wanting some of the limelight. The way Hillary Clinton carried on after the mission, you’d swear she was the one in Abbottabad that night. Flown in, no less, on a chopper piloted by Barack Obama.

So you grew up in Butte, Montana? I knew someone from Butte once. I used to call him Buttehead. Did anyone ever call you that? If they did, I bet their body was never found.

I see your daddy still lives there in a house stuffed with all the animals you guys have shot, including a bear. I bet you blew his head off and had it replaced with a hippo’s head. I imagine that’s the kinda thing a couple of fun-lovin’ good ol’ boys like you and yer paw would do.

I guess it makes sense that you’d outgrow animals and want to start killing people. Who wouldn’t? A dumb ol’ grizzly looks great standing in the corner of the lounge, but he ain’t that smart, right? A human, on the other hand, can think on his feet and sometimes even fight back. Makes killing so much more of a sport.

On the other hand, boet, you did sign up to become a sniper. I’m not judging you here, but aren’t those the people who sit in a tree and do their killing from a couple of clicks away? Can’t get safer than that. Unless you fall out of the tree.

It’s real dumb of me to make fun of snipers. For all I know, you’ve got sights and a gun powerful enough for you to climb up on your daddy’s roof and put a bullet through my head as I sit here at my desk in … I’m not telling you where I am.

It’s shocking that your comrades dispute your version of events. Some dude, probably from Seal Team Five, said you shot Osama once in the head, not three times, and that your mates then added the finishing touches with shots to the chest, stomach, arms, hands, legs and feet. What a bunch of credit junkies. You killed him, fair and square. If anyone tries to argue, kill them, too.

So now you have all this attention on you, aren’t you afraid? I’m sure those whackjobs from Isis wouldn’t mind a quiet chat with you. Also, the US Navy isn’t exactly happy with you for blabbing about your exploits. Your former unit apparently has a strict code of silence. Who’d have thought the Seals and the Mafia would have something in common?

Your daddy nailed it when he said, “I’ll paint a big target on my front door and say ‘Come and get us’.” That’s the spirit that made America great. Okay, it didn’t work so well with the World Trade Centre, but still.

I believe you’re making a living as a motivational speaker? Good for you. Better than working at Walmart, right? You get to sow a bunch of damn wild seeds in some pretty young minds. Tell them the important thing is to always wear camouflage. Take no prisoners. If you’re alone, use a drone. If you’re afraid, invade. If you’re in doubt, scream and shout.

Hang tight, comrade. In two years’ time, America will once again be ruled by the righteous. With the Republicans back in the White House, you’ll get what you deserve.



An open letter to Ugandan President Yoweri Museveni

Dear President Museveni, Supreme Ruler of the Pearl of Africa, Teacher of Lessons, Father of Children, Guardian of Public Morality and Confirmed Heterosexual for Life.

Congratulations on signing the Anti-Homosexuality Act. You are a true visionary. This new law will go down in the history books with other outstanding pieces of legislation, like the one in Saudi Arabia that bans women from driving cars and the one in the United Arab Emirates that allows a man to beat his wife.

I assume the law was necessary after it became apparent that homosexuality was beginning to overwhelm your country. I cannot imagine what must have gone on outside Entebbe International Airport every time fresh meat arrived. Male tourists being fondled and groped by rampaging gangs of lisping men in miniskirts. Female visitors being slathered with whipped cream and licked to death by frenzied mobs of lesbians. The transgendered loitering on street corners waving both sets of genitals at passing motorists. It must have all been too terrible for words.

I heard that the streets of Kampala were littered with the bodies of same-sex couples copulating with no regard for the delicate African sensibilities of normal men like you and I.

I imagine that when you left the palace you needed a fire truck to drive ahead of your convoy and hose them down so that you could pass.

You only have 36-million people in your country. If you hadn’t stepped in, Uganda would have been deserted in less than a hundred years. Lions would gnaw on the bones of the last heterosexual. We need to breed, Mr President. And quickly. There are only one billion people in the whole of Africa. That’s the population of a Chinese village.

As your scientists will no doubt have informed you, homosexuals cannot breed because gay men do not have sperm. Their ejaculate – and I do apologise for my language – consists of glitter and baby seahorses. Luckily they don’t live very long (the seahorses), or your city’s water supply would be full of them by now. Lesbians, of course, cannot have children because they don’t have ovaries – they have something else. Something made of studded leather. Scientists are still struggling to come up with a name for it.

I believe your progressive new law allows for different penalties for different acts. Fair enough. It would be silly to chop someone’s head off just because he was seen holding another man’s hand. And besides, men hold hands all the time in Africa. I have seen our very own President Zuma holding hands with President Mugabe. And we know for a fact that Zuma isn’t firing seahorses. Mugabe, I’m not so sure about. He is a bit too effeminate for my liking.

I don’t know what your law says, but I expect that kissing another man would get you ten years in prison. Thirty years for fellatio sounds about right. I would hate to have a willy in my mouth. My wife feels the same, unfortunately. Perhaps I should take her to the United Arab Emirates and beat her soundly.

Penetrative sex, needless to say, should get you life in jail. I am sure your prisons, like ours, are jammed with dangerous criminals sodomising one another every minute of the day. That will straighten out your offenders in no time at all.

I see you signed the law after your scientists told you that nobody is born gay. In other words, it’s genital, not genetic. That worries me a bit, I must say. I don’t want to be shopping in Woolworths and I reach for the low-fat blueberry muffins and WHAM! I sashay out of the shop five minutes later checking my fingernails and resisting an overpowering urge to shag the car guard right there and then.

We need to remain vigilant, comrade. If you start feeling peculiar, kill a small animal with your bare hands, drink its blood and take one of your female staff roughly from behind. That should sort it out.

Your scientists must have also told you that certain homosexual acts are contagious. If, for instance, you accidentally brush against a man who engages in flibbing, you may find yourself wanting to dangle your testicles in a bowl of chicken giblets and then eat them. The giblets, not your testicles. That would be more of a German thing.

Floppy-wristed liberal deviants criticise you for saying that homosexuality is “unnatural”. Perhaps it isn’t in girly countries like France, but it certainly is in Africa. You know what is natural? Young boys in camouflage uniforms riding around on the back of pick-up trucks shooting rebels in the face. Your Idi Amin was my kind of man. The only male organs he ever put in his mouth were the freshly eviscerated hearts of his enemies.

I can’t believe President Barack Obama had the audacity to rap you over the knuckles. What kind of brother is he? And is he unaware of how heavily the American economy depends on trade with Uganda?

At least South Africa is showing some solidarity. Our radiant home affairs minister Naledi Pandor said there was no need to comment on your new law. Fortunately, you’re far enough away for us not to have to worry about thousands of heavily accessorised refugees flouncing across our border. They would certainly give new meaning to the term “refugee camp”. I apologise. This is no time for jokes.

You have said that Westerners brought homosexuality to your country. Can’t argue with that. The British are masters of perversion. Government ministers are regularly found at night in parks around London on their hands and knees canvassing support from the erectorate. Westminster on a Friday afternoon is like ancient Rome under Nero. The shrieking, squealing and purging into the state vomitorium can be heard halfway to Scotland.

A report last year found that 96% of Ugandans believe their society should not accept homosexuality. That alone should silence your critics. Who cares that 96% of Ugandans also believe that using witchcraft is the best way to get promoted, rich or laid? Let the numbers speak for themselves.

Much like my government, I don’t wish to interfere. But are you aware that this aberrant community extends further than gays and lesbians? I wouldn’t like to see a situation where bisexual, transgendered and intersex people slip through the cracks, so to speak. I don’t know what an intersex person is, but it forms part of their LGBTI acronym. You also need to clamp down on acronyms. They are a construct of the West and, if you’re not careful, can easily lead to other things.

The gay Nordic countries have already started withholding aid to Uganda. So what? Would you rather have a healthy economy knowing that men were doing unspeakable things to other men late at night inside their homes with the curtains drawn and all the lights off, or would you rather have a desperately poor, sick, uneducated and hungry nation of heterosexuals knowing that all the gays are in jail?

If you are going to do this thing properly, it is vital that you outlaw homosexual acts in the animal kingdom as well. Beasts are banging away at an alarming rate with an appalling disregard for the shape of one another’s genitalia. Would you want your children accidentally stumbling upon two male dwarf chimpanzees having sex? I know I wouldn’t. It’s not just chimps, either. Lions do it to each other. So do crabs. Boy giraffes love it up the bum. And every tenth pair of seagulls is lesbian.

A final friendly word of advice. Don’t ever visit Cape Town. You will either have a nervous breakdown or become a bottie bandit. I was lucky. I had a nervous breakdown.

A flashback to January 20, 2009

My house looks like the goddamn American embassy. Okay, so I might not have the triple-locking steel doors, bombproof windows, surveillance cameras, evacuation plan, leery staff and heavily patrolled parking area – but I do have the Stars and Stripes flying from the roof and Barack Obama’s seraphic face plastered across every surface.

Under normal circumstances the flag alone would have made us a prime target for the local al-Qaeda cell, but I see their curtains are drawn and the BMW X5 is not in the drive. They must still be away. I recall Mrs Abdul-Majeed telling Brenda they were going to Plett for the holidays.

Brenda and my increasingly eccentric loinfruit, Clive, are in love with Obama, hopefully for different reasons. Brenda says it is because of his moral fibre, but I suspect it’s because he thinks like a white man and is hung like a Maasai warrior.

Obama is Clive’s hero because, in the words of the brat, “he is a shining beacon of hope in a world full of despair”. I picked him up by his ear and demanded to know who taught him to speak dirty like that, but he refused to reveal his sources. Probably got it from a left-wing pornolitical rag like Newsweek.

“If it’s because Obama is black,” I shouted, “let me remind you that Idi Amin was also black.” I tossed out a few more names of darkies who were once shining beacons of hope. Mugabe. Mobutu. Mengistu. Mswati. Moi. “And those are just the ems,” I said.

The madness started last Sunday night with a concert at the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, DC. It was quite a spectacle. Denzel Washington reminded everyone of how far America had strayed from the path of righteousness, while Samuel L Jackson, wearing the latest in 5th Avenue rebel chic, mixed up some 23rd Psalm with a little Ezekiel 25:17 before taking out a pearl-handled 9mm Star pistol and opening fire on the crowd.

When Josh Groban took the stage, I covered my ears and said: “Where’s that damn lone wolf assassin when we need him?” Brenda threw an empty beer bottle at me. I deflected it and it bounced off Clive’s head. He barely noticed, so enraptured was he by the shameless display of naked patriotism going on in Washington.

Some lard-assed redneck by the name of Garth Brooks almost sparked the biggest line dance in history by yeehawing on about them good ol’ boys drinking whiskey and rye. Obama stopped singing along when Brooks reached the line, “This’ll be the day that I die.”

After all, most of America’s good ol’ boys were at that very moment not only hitting the whiskey and rye, but were also oiling their rifles and wondering how to get a fertiliser bomb to the capital without it going off in the back of the pick-up.

For me, the highlight came when the announcer said, “Ladies and gentlemen, the Bald Eagle.” I expected Obama to stand up. Ronald Reagan’s Secret Service code name was Rawhide. George W Bush’s was Idiot. But Obama wasn’t Bald Eagle. It wasn’t even code. Instead, a lumberjack appeared with America’s national emblem lashed to his wrist.

I was the only one who fell about laughing when the eagle tried to take off and then flapped about helplessly like a trussed-up Transkei chicken.

Obama said a few words, causing Brenda to blush and whimper softly. Clive fell to his knees and clutched his heart. I thought he might be having a cardiac arrest so I pushed him over and pummeled his chest until he wept with gratitude.

The crowd went wild when Obama said, “Anything is possible in America.” They cheered even louder when he added: “Anything, that is, apart from giving Ben Trovato a green card. That’s not possible.”

Fine. I didn’t want one, anyway.

The dramatic denouement came when 135-year-old Pete Seeger, propped up by Bruce Springsteen, shuffled on with a banjo in his hand and a sock on his head. He began singing a 1944 Woody Guthrie song and my eyes filled with tears. Tears of laughter.

Then came Inauguration Day. Beyond Super Tuesday. This was Sublime Tuesday. Radiant Tuesday. Hark-the-herald-angels-sing Tuesday.

I woke early, around lunchtime, and switched to CNN. They were showing live pictures of a city at dawn. “Hurry up,” I shouted to Brenda. “They’re going to start bombing any moment now.”

But this was no war. In terms of sheer magnitude, this was an event second only to the confirmed sighting of Elvis and Jesus walking arm in arm down the ChampsElysées.

Out on the National Mall, a million people dressed as Eskimos were in the grip of some kind of neo-religious fervor. Their eyes were rolled back in their heads, their hands shook and they babbled in tongues. Maybe that was just the cold. And their accents.

It was America’s biggest-ever concentration of black people outside of the country’s prisons and yet there wasn’t a single mugging. So much for the propaganda.

“At midday, a black man will become the most powerful man on the face of the earth,” said a US congressman, causing white supremacists everywhere to soil their trousers and reach for the whiskey and rye.

At some point, the Obamas stopped off at the White House to deliver an eviction notice to the Bushes. Laura looked like a pink popsicle on Prozac while George was smiling as if he knew something the rest of us didn’t, which, as we all know, he doesn’t.

Bush’s trigger-happy factotum, Dick Cheney, refused to go quietly and Secret Service agents were forced to break his legs and take him out in a wheelchair. See ya, bubba.

Apart from Obama fluffing his lines, the inauguration went off without a hitch. One fawning supplicant stopped hyperventilating long enough to describe the occasion as, “Mind-blowing … a secular version of a miracle.”

I went into the garden to make room for more beer and while I was throwing up, Brenda shouted: “You’re missing Yo-Yo Ma!” I rushed inside expecting to see a gold-toothed gangsta from the Bloods rapping about payback time but instead found a middle-aged Chinese nerd strumming his cello.

“Yo-Yo Ma se poes,” I said, going back outside to finish emptying my stomach.

After the inauguration, George W Bush was escorted to a waiting helicopter. I was deeply disappointed. He should have been stripped naked and made to crawl out of Washington on his hands and knees. Mothers who had lost their sons in Iraq and Afghanistan could have taken turns riding on his back, whipping his flabby white buttocks all the way to Texas.