I’d love to pay homage to the tilted residue left in the gritty part of my appetite, but sadly I can’t. If only I stayed up all night entertaining hookers while snarfing crank off a bloodied switch blade, then in a post rumpled state of orgiastic excess found myself muttering into my laptop about society’s injustice and some grand scheme to unhinge the bastards at its helm, but that’s not true. I ate some chicken and read the Mail & Guardian while drinking too much coffee. Gonzo is dead.
Staring at a picture of Tata, thinking about what it means to have this man in my political consciousness, in my heritage, as one of my heros, I begin to realise things. Firstly that he set the bar awfully high, I think of his predecessors, a day drunk academic, then what has to be the most apathetic politico to have, possibly, breathed followed by Mr Money Hungry Rapey Pants himself. No graph could properly convey such a plummet. Unless the x continuum was smeared in shit and on fire, perhaps then.
The other thing I realise, when thinking about Madiba, is how stately he was as president, his charm. I miss that, Zuma’s recent bit of interplay, where he basically gathered the nation at his pulpit to shout the words ‘shut up’ seem so very alien in comparison.
I don’t know how the next el presidente is going to compete with this downward spiral trend, it seems a tie between a bestiality sextape and a cameo in 2 girls 1 cup. Whatever it is, he’ll have his work set out for him.
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