Three satirists sift through our country’s state of the nation address. Decidedly more serious than what we were hoping for, but it was, after all, a serious affair.
Not suitable for those under the age of drugs.
There aren’t many pigeons in the inner city. Hardly any. I guess the sceptic funk waves them off too.
That fucking bridge irritates me. Shitty little queen Elizabeth bridge. Some aged over privileged royal prune with her name on my shit. Fuck her.
I travel to the burbs for peace and quiet. Little eateries hemmed in by stretches of unique nest, rolling lawns, high walls, great tits.
Every driveway the center of attention, many of the locals behave in this landlocked fashion too. Too busy to notice anyone around them during the day, too drunk not to be noticed at night. It’s no easy feat, this exercise in middle class utopia, these perks are expensive. All those fiery hoops rubbed raw with over use and not for nothing. That right kind of perversity comes at a steep premium. The piper doesn’t do installments, cash up front and hurry, the queue looks edgy.
The heavy collusion between intent and reality becomes apparent. Our bluffs aren’t just called, but celebrated for the scale of their wrongness. Cunty dick starved princesses and dapper morally grounded rape faced glory boys all reach and plunge into the huddle. Socially acceptable orgasms all around. To deviate is a heinous crime against civility. Simon says call a priest.
What good fortune that hamster wheels come synced. Chauffeured trophy receptacle brood schemes a plenty. We fill but every hole. Shots fired, stretchers for snow collisions, everyone stare, everyone forget.
Cold baths work for alcohol induced shock. Smoke a touch of h to get lower. One up for the testosterone boys. Coffee for those on the monitors.
Right, everyone as they were.
The perfect protagonists, a heady mix of mind and balls, a hypothetic über demos. Sure imperfections are tremendously significant with regards to authenticity, but they are no necessary evil, they are utopia’s pucker garnish.
So much chasing after symmetry, a why could be thrown at our collective neurosis, a bottle neck of millions of individual little fuck ups. To see perfection as a defect. Evolution friendly scar tissue.
Yes, messy is beautiful, shying from chaos remains the conservative’s defining attribute. I say conservative, I mean more, the prude, the thing that fears lack, rejection and being made to feel small. The shit part of us.
Conservatives aren’t wrong, they’re just boring cunts. Which is a far more damning anti-achievement. No idea held dear that isn’t written in some dead book or learnt from some creatively cripple club. It’s the perpetuation of the status quo that we’re all so very concerned about. Both those out of the loop and those who tie loops around the necks of the beatnik vanguard. We are not now that same thing we were years ago, we’re something else, a heftier slalom awaits the salvation seeker. Run bitch.
Menacing and effacing and proper beautiful.
The all in brigade, bully boy cigar puffing bellies crammed into Armani suites flanked by private bank plastic filled saddle bags. Elite, sure, original? Fuck no. The same prime locale square meterage reflected by vacant holiday tomes riddled with over fucked coke mistress receipts.
Residue blow powder mixed with cum with tears with death squady tendencies.
It’s meaning they want.
Before I begin, let me say – in light of your litigious ambitions – everything herein is opinion, hearsay and speculation. Nothing is based on truth, merely supposition; even actual quotes from your own timeline. I acknowledge that you may or may not have written them, meant them, understood them or even known how Twitter worked when you made the words appear.
These are nothing but the recollections of an alcoholic drug addict. Should your massive legal team ever manifest itself into reality, I hereby notify them not to contact me, nor to take me at my words below. These paragons of justice you have engaged have no business following up on what are essentially the ranting nonsenses of a drug fiend. In pure science, scant evidence exists to prove that I, nor even you, nor them, actually exist as individual, independent life forms (as opposed to varied manifestations of a still-to-be-named singular matter).
I also immediately absolve you of any blame for the use of words such as, but not limited to: “dickhead” “ageist” and “junkie” amongst others in reference to my person. I have seen photographic evidence and read Tweets to suggest that you may be partial to alcohol from time to time, and this must be considered in certain cases, as a mitigating factor in the mistaken use of words.
If anyone who knows you at all, should read read this, and recognise some spark of truth – that is entirely coincidental and unintentional.
I don’t know you very well. I believe I met you once, at least a decade ago, in a Greenside restaurant, at which time you hurled a Champagne cork at a friend of mine. Then it mystified me. Since, I have come to understand that you do like to publicly toss around remnants of the good life – I think you feel it suggests that you are in some way successful, and so, justified in behaving as badly as you like to get attention. I suppose, contextually, the word “toss” becomes you, sir.
My imagination tells me that you are a man for whom gesture, posture and artifice – it seems – are most important, and who are we to stand in your way of going about your business?
It struck me that night, as indeed the above mentioned cork almost struck my mother, how very small you are physically, for such a bullish approach as yours. I am no giant – so perhaps there’s a lesson in reflection there.
Nonetheless, drunk as I was on that occasion, your smallness left an enduring impression. How curious that, like the heart, smallness can be worn on a sleeve – designer or otherwise. As I say, I was drunk and therefore probably not a reliable witness to my own perception.
At one time, I had confused myself into believing that you were a decent voice in a respectable newspaper, that you were a writer of some significance in terms of talent. Of course, as you so often point out, I was in thrall to a chorus of chemicals then, a veritable hubristic maelstrom. Entangled in the misconception that illusion danced together – that men in collars and with brushed hair and expensive shoes were good and important and right. How wrong I was. And, indeed, may still be – who knows?
As somebody with legal training – you’ll appreciate a point on definitions, David: you have often referred to me as a “Junkie” – just so you don’t embarrass yourself any further – a junkie, according to real drug takers, is someone primarily addicted to heroin. I was never big on the opiates, nor needles, unless transmitting ink to the middle layers of the dermis. I am colourful, David, I’ll give you that.
No – to be clear – I focused more on the abuse of stimulants, primarily cocaine, occasionally crystal meth (which I don’t recommend for those who enjoy their sleep) and, for belly laughs: LSD, Psilocybin mushrooms, MDMA and just every now and then, Ketamine – all of which require a healthy imagination to get the full benefit.
In your defence, I believe I did once take heroin entirely by a mistake that could have been fatal. Ironic, we have both almost died from being shot up in one way or another. I’m not sure if you were actually shot, though, it may have just been a dream.
The experts revealed that my primary addiction was to alcohol. Judging by your Twitter feed, and your photos, I put it to you that we may have more in common than you think.
Although, I would never be quite so loud about my choice of poison as you seem to be on social media – I preferred good local sparkling wine over champagne; a decent single malt over Johnny Walker Blue; shiraz over cab sav and always, always cognac over brandy as preludes to my drug binges.
I descended, towards the end of my wild days, to drinking rum and coke. A fitting metaphor for you and the friends you keep these days – Rum and Coke thinkers. Dan Roodt, Jani Allan and Steve Hofmeyr – what a lovely gang of nation-builders – a bigot, a former right wing groupie and the poster boy for local hate-pop. How soundly you must rest of an evening. I believe they are your friends, judging by the digital snugness of you all, but that is just my own cyberpunk theory.
You have, I wildly hypothesise, associated gleefully with these bottom-dwelling crack pots and fallen, bloated men of no real importance… like that lovely Mr Gordin, is it? What a gem he is, my goodness, a real keeper. I barely recognised him in the pictures; it has been such a long time since I have watched “Deliverance”. I think he was in that, but am happy to be wrong. Perhaps it was a flashback, one can never be too sure.
Anyway, this part is about me, let’s continue, shall we?
I came to my senses eventually, got my demons to stop screaming and to speak more coherently. I know they are not gone entirely, but for now, remain in order. A wise man knows that dragons cannot be completely exorcised, but rather function as a useful sign post back to god, whatever form she may take. Rehab is an excellent process, and, though expensive, well worth the effort. I’m sure you would approve, I know you profess an enduring love for expensive things.
I also recommend rehab most highly for anyone who feels they may be losing their grip. A man, who for example, insists that he will tell a Presbyterian’s Rabbi about bad behaviour – what on earth do you think he might be on?
In any event, I did learn during my walk down around the underbelly of my own hells that many, many people of great social standing and proper influence in business are “junkies”. But I don’t suppose you know that, as we have discovered that you don’t spend much time with really powerful people.
The simple truth of the matter is, David, that people dressed like you have done far more damage to the world than people dressed like me, and they always will. There we go. One fact in a sea of speculation.
Anyway, rehab was nine years ago this June, so let’s not dwell, save to say that the wonderful people of RiverView Manor helped me to achieve all-new levels of clarity, and so I came back to Johannesburg with fresh eyes and a spring in my step.
I am happy to report that being sober allowed me to achieve important things – such as providing primary care for my daughter – which is no mean feat with a history like mine. I am a good father now, and not shy to piss in a cup when asked, to be psychometrically assessed, to be forensically evaluated. I know who I am, David – and when one knows that, one becomes quite difficult to fuck with.
Oh yes, I do swear, another concession – it’s something the old boys club use as some kind of “get out of jail” card when cornered – “he has a filthy mouth.” Yes, I do. By choice. I have discovered more important things to judge than single words – like which people intend good and which bad.
An aside – I did, when I travelled to your native country ( to play at the Royal Albert Hall, not sure if you know it – a really lovely hall, and named after my penis piercing, funny I noticed a terrible number of drug addicts had done awfully well there ) let the authorities know that you, one of their most successful exports to the colonies (by your own biography) were safe after your home-invasion ordeal, and they denied knowing who you were. I imagine it must be M15, taking measures to ensure plausible deniability. One can’t be too careful with a national treasure.
Perhaps imagining yourself a bigger fish in our flawed little pond is more comforting than knowing you are a Schrödinger’s fish at home?
Let’s talk about my new-found clarity a little more.
I had no idea, on the night we first met, that you were not, at that time, nor are you currently, much of a writer at all – to my clearly varicose brain . You, dude, are an opinion, not an author. Writing is a truly rare skill. Great writing is almost a unicorn. Twitter is far more your speed than, let’s say, entire paragraphs?
It took me some time to see through your flimsy tissue of populist rants and see the main conceit that has remained your theme: a poor knock off of PJ O’Rourke: the photos, the huffing, the bombastic posturing. I finally got it, what you had been trying to do – dazzle us with a wealthy and garrulous import. Someone who must be right, as he is from the “big overseas” (Zef ninja – oh dear, you should hear him swear…)
All of these things, paradoxically, are fleetingly attractive in an intellectual Republican like O’Rourke. One is not only drawn to his humour, but almost forgives him his political posture as a genuinely engaging talent informs it.
In a frustrated, misanthropic, unemployable former darling of racist society cloistered in a fractional ownership vineyard housing scheme, less so. I’m sure if such a man existed, you would agree.
I imagine (all the people – oops, drugs again) that when you were finally let go into the cold, it was like we had awoken from a deadly daydream. Every week, we let you spout smug and entrenched old school outrage at the idea of democratic change. In the words of Truman Capote “That’s not writing, it’s typing.”
We allowed you to continue to fuel the idea that black people break everything; that they don’t think and they don’t care. (I summarise, and do so confidently, as fiction requires little or no stickle.) None of us did anything. In fact, some people cheered you on. ( I should point out here that a recent survey of corruption in the EU resulted in the scale of it being described as “breathtaking” and equal to around 50% of the total budget of the entire system annually – I wonder how many black people it took to arrange that?)
Well, thank god someone finally said “enough”. You told us as you left the building that you’d be back, that there would be hell to pay, that you were going to get the cavalry… but in the words of John Cale – “Nobody called, and nobody came…”
You went off into the night, expensive shirttails flapping in the wind, spitting and vowing that you would be legally avenged. I imagine we all felt relief as your muttering faded – as one does when someone else finally removes road kill from the middle of the road. See how I included “middle of the road” there?
Anyhow, we all moved on, my good friend Darrel Bristow-Bovey included. I should mention here that he too acknowledged his flaws – and exiled himself to the fringes of his profession for a long time, and returned having remembered his true nature – a good man, and an even better writer – writing an award-winning novel along the way, that’s pudding for you. None of us is perfect, David, but when life knocks, decent people know to answer.
So you went off, I believe, and got shot in a robbery. I’m sorry about that, shouldn’t happen to anyone, but it did, and you’re alive. I’ve had bad things happen to me too, really shit things I wouldn’t wish on even you. None of us is guaranteed safety, anywhere, ever. People are maimed, betrayed, robbed, embezzled and raped everyday. We cannot stop it, and so we try and be kind to each other when it does.
We could have said that you had got drunk and hung out with armed robbers, and brought the ordeal upon yourself by inviting them back to yours to look at etchings, but we didn’t. We gave you sympathy and left you to heal.
I know you think people who show kindness equally to all people are “libtards” – well, that’s okay, we would expect nothing less than labels from a Bull–ard. Famous libtards include Mr Mandela and Bishop Tutu, amongst others. Bull-ards include a New Jersey waitress, a fading, grizzled Neil Diamond drag act and a typist with a mean streak.
Then I speculate fantastically that you were depressed and you thought about killing yourself – but you didn’t. That’s good. Nobody should get to a place where they don’t want to wake up ever again. You must have been in a terrible place, doing irrational things, like telling everyone what rubbish blogs are, and then writing some yourself – dear me – the sheer pandemonium of it all.
Well, at least you had alcohol, I’ve heard – ironically – on the grapevine. Unlike me, you can drink regularly and all sorts of drinks too, without ever having a problem, so that must have helped – oh – you had cigars as well, I’m told there are pictures – those expensive ones full of nice, non-addictive nicotine – you know, the kind they give to rabbits in experiments. Everyone knows that alcohol and nicotine are not drugs – how could they be? You can buy them at the shops.
Let’s cut forward – to a few months ago. I imagine, like Voldemort, you grew tired of the shadows, but needed to feed on the rats and mice of your profession and rebuild your strength, and observe successful people. How did they do it? Where can one get the kind of fame they seem to have with no real merit? There must be a way? Aaah, you thought… Outrageous, controversial and without taste… a tungsten light switched on inside your skull…
You hatched a plan, goes the theory, to stage a massive comeback. The fading voice of privileged white outrage returns, using the hip medium of digital water-cooler talk. I suppose you became intoxicated at the vision of one hundred and forty character assassins filling the world with trumpets and palm fronds as you re-entered the city, astride the awesome silicone ass of techno-gossip.
Well, apparently, it went about as well as Simon Mann’s plan to make splodges of wonga.
Your desperate attempt at a digital coup, using a rape survivor as a punching bag, was clumsy, thoughtless and embarrassed us all beyond dignified silence. Even in the limited elbowroom of Twitter, some of us felt compelled to throw a punch – falling for the same trap you are so sadly flailing about in now.
The difference is, David, the rest of us go back to happy lives. Like the last man at the bar, you don’t seem so sure.
You chose Michelle Solomon as your victim. You rubbished her rape and all who came to her defence. You rallied your friends, and even invented some to beef up your rationale. As people uncovered the mechanics of your little plan, you howled and screeched like a laboratory-bound primate as the forceps closed in. You cried out when criticised, you squealed when I offered you a chance to go on air and talk as men. This is my recollection, feel free to disagree.
First, you accepted. Two major talk show hosts declined, citing your particular “heat-seeking” behavior as the reason. Then you mentioned you’d be out of town. I replied that I could wait for your return. You then backed away, saying that your argument was with Michelle. I told you that my argument was with you. Indeed, Michelle Solomon may be an irritating personality. I wouldn’t know – I don’t know her personally, but that is not the point, is it?
What I do know is that I object to any man bullying someone who has already suffered. The way you handle yourself as a man in public offends me, and that is what I wanted to discuss on the radio. Finally, running out of room to manoeuvre, and realising that, in the language of some my more street-level friends, “shit just got real”, you blurted the now famous line “Can’t talk on air, matter is now sub-judice.”
Just so you know, one drive-time host agreed, and before I could send details, you choked. Tell the truth, Bullard, it gets easier as you go.
You have recently, I believe, tried to retake the challenge. I wouldn’t know, as I don’t get your tweets. I put it to you that you know that, and have only tried to accept the challenge with the knowledge that I have blocked you on Twitter. That I have blocked you is a second cold fact.
David, I believe you have not benefited, as many of us have, from a spell out in the cold. If you don’t have the substance to go and be a big shot in the country you seem to think is run so much better than ours, at least enjoy the sun, the clean air and the space you have here while minding your manners, and be kind to the locals – as you are aware, we can be savage.
All the best to you and your wife. Take care in the vineyards; they are built on a great deal of suffering and exploitation – of the locals.
– So who are you voting for? I ask.
He isn’t interested in me, but it’s nothing personal, a city bubbling with 7 million cases of potential small talk make our encounter intrinsically insignificant. If only we lived in some bumfuck outskirt, an endangered prattle district.
– Huh, he says.
– Who are you voting for?
It’s a tricky line to cross with a stranger, but fuck it, we were both standing in a queue after all. Modernity’s sweet revenge.
Eye contact, faint smile, engage, I’m going in for the interpersonal kill.
– The EFF, he says.
– The EFF?
My heart skips a beat, though the hat was a give away, finally a real conversation with the official radical left. I’d milk his rage and leave with a sturdy resolve, enthused. I inquire on.
– Because the ANC has failed us.
Fuck it, I’m moving to Kakamas.
A troublesome reason. Hardly the words from the transcendent left. A utopian vision pulled from dystopia’s anus?
Reactionary twaddle 101.
I smile and wait for my chips patiently. Bull dozing through our obviously obvious conversation.
The big house, the tender fraud, the lack of service delivery. Blah di fucking blah, I’ve had that conversation. Paint me a ‘new’ where, a vision.
The arc of Julius Malema’s political career is both fascinating and infuriating.
There is no external authority able to trump true political will. The judiciary may be integrous, but when it misses, it misses big.
The well read mob can be supplanted with rural desperation and the rest handled with well timed EFT’s.
Money, unscrupulous ignorant support and tailor made ego boosts for the ambitious are all stirred up to form this noxious cocktail called political success.
Don’t get me right, I’m proud of the EFF, they’ve mobilized creatively, struck nerves and shown courage.
But. But. But.
There is the question of authenticity and responsibility. Unfortunately the one is as boring as the other, probably why the EFF enjoys such popularity they don’t bother with incommodious reality. An economic freedom fighter with a 16 million Rand tax bill, from purple suits to the trenches? I don’t know how the spin succeeded, how did one of our greatest tendrepreneurs became the face of economic liberation? Minister of Police, Nathi Mthethwa, said Juju almost single-handedly plunged the Limpopo government into financial crises.
The Ratanang Family trust debacle.
Yet there’s no real concern amidst EFF ranks. These two have been crow barred apart for some obscure reason. Juju’s call to centralise our country’s mineral wealth, all of it piling into one coffer and his blatant fiscal fiendery are very much part of the same bag.
If any sort of socialist progression is to occur it has be made by someone unmoved by shiny watches and grape coloured suits. How voters could even consider handing over the pin codes to the treasury to a man who’s intergrity is in such blatant question is beyond me.
A bankrupt man, being investigated for serious fraud, running for president, on economic reform policies? My soul creeks with existential angst as I type this. What the fuck is going on? Another thing worth mentioning is that he allegedly stole most of his money. I know the lay term is colluded. BUT. BUT. BUT.
So, a man who stole professionally has still managed to run dry and now wants the top job?
I don’t understand.
I’m off to have a lie down.
There are all sorts of problems with nearly everything. I remember drunkardly walking out of one of those Saturday markets that sell everything you don’t need at prices only people who don’t need things can afford. Babbling incoherently about the dangers of sex to another comedian I once heard discredit god and existence through a hole that wasn’t his mouth.
“Then when it was our turn everything changed, DON’T FUCK ANYONE OR YOU’LL DIE! Nevermind, here comes MC Hammer.” -Dylan Moran
A man in a beard overheard me and agreed. He was old, possibly bitter and also white. Too many warning signals to not be suspicious. We moved on, eyeing the fucker knowingly. Apartheid nostalgia? Couldn’t be sure. Still, when the revolution comes he’ll be the first with his back against the wall. Poor fucker, probably doesn’t even see it coming.
Problems are one of existence’s key features. From unnecessary smells and people who chew with their mouths open to murder and people who chew with their mouths open and cat piss. Where ever you are there’s sure to be some or other minor or spectacular malfunction making itself known. Proud fuckers, these defects.
This is just something I’ve learnt to make my peace with, and by making peace I mean complain bitterly. My god, what a blessing overt protestations of displeasure are, to whine and moan and carp and grumble…bliss. The great middle class boil in my soul. Too green to lance, green as in rotten, not under ripe. The puss has made its way down my arteries and into heart and brain. I can tell, because every year I get another year older I hold a memorial service for failed aspirations. Without fail this happens, the getting older part too.
Our political system and its commentary are too often held hostage by extremes,wordy academies on the one side with racially charged militant pigs on the other. The great stand off between unpaid economic hostages of apartheid and anonymous vierkleur naaier bloggers and commentators. I see yellow. Should have lanced that fucker when I had the chance.
And sure, there are many good ones amidst the sludge, but it takes effort to find them. I rejoice whenever a new one turns the corner, my mind’s eye brightens. A “mind rise”, once described by an art lecturer who only wore black and only drank spritzers.
There’s a similarity between the individuals on my A list. They’re constitutionally soluble, sufficiently front footed, yet not too pushy and normally rather charming, or at the very least funny. Without humour this grand political debate turns tedious fast. Laughter fixes everything. Fascists don’t have five minutes. Democracy gave us comedy. Imperialism the cross. Look what that did.
There are always bits of advice wrapped in the great columns, sometimes masquerading as observations and always painted as a preferred state of affairs. It boils down to the pursuit of beautiful ideas and their eager assignment to actuality. From morality to leadership style to economic particulars to existential pursuits and the list goes on. Sometimes people say rude things about Jacob Zuma’s head in their professional unfunny capacity. This isn’t smart. Let the comedians do that.
I just think with all the political fuzziness, ideologies left unexplained or unattended and every other politico’s hand caught fisting the cookie jar, we might do well to distil a maxim that remains applicable across the board.
With one of the largest civil services in the world comes a million departments, committees and portfolios. Each with a very specific mandate. Add to that the fact that we have one of the most tolerant and liberal constitutions in the world, a beauteous feat, yet complicated for the matter at hand. How to fit all of that intent in one sentence?
With a myriad of constitutionally ordained dispositions, political agendas and spiritual leanings to filter before we produce an all encompassing aphorism that resonates with the South African condition, well it could take terribly long. We might as well coin the phrase ‘be nicer’ and get on with the rest of our lives.
Meditative interlude (wank).
I’ve spent some time considering this problem, between the previous paragraph and this one that is. Well I had a shit and insulted squirrels on twitter, but my process has come to an end.
The one phrase, the one bit of advice I think speaks authentically to South Africans without losing any potency is this, “try and be less kak.”
If every opinion blog, op ed, office wall and comment section had this pasted on its masthead, we’d surely see progress as a country. Except for squirrels, those stagnating artificial additions to the animal kingdom deserve whatever’s coming to them.
People are always mentioning Lenny Bruce, his name is synonymous with this craft’s core, but I feel a stab whenever I hear it. Part annoyance that I’ve missed the real-time chaos that was his career, maybe I’m more vexed that I don’t fully grasp him. This him, this guy, this martyr, this pre-hipster anomaly that set the grandest of all balls rolling.
Transgressive comedy, the soap box nihilism that’s solely responsible for my artistic awe, belonged to him first. Having looked quite fervently for modernity’s cure, all fucking over actually. I have to admit there’s nothing quite as effectively pungeant as stand up’s sweet stench for kicking a hole in this self-perpetuating delusional contemporary cesspit. This protestant work ethic chained to an insatiable desire for shiny things. “Has anyone seen the blue report, where’s my stapler, this cubicle layout is far more ergonomic, can we have a debrief on the executables”… can someone please tell all of these things to go “fuck their hands”.
That’s what the whole thing means.
The moral tight rope antics.
Razor danger observations.
In this year of our absent Lord offence is everything. Social currency has a black list and once you’ve cracked the nod you’re akin to fucked.
That’s what makes stand up such a bizarre preoccupation, those of the transgressive disposition specifically, they’re in pursuit of the very thing that could end them. This medium, of the taboo, is civilization’s greatest weapon when it comes to ostracising the unwanted.
Sure times have changed. It’s not like religious zealots still have a voice, LGBT’s are still a punching bag or racism thrives on.
Sarcasm aside, times have changed, bigotry has left the building of popular consciousness. Lefty anything has lost its shock quotient and is no longer punishable by the judiciary… in this country. What our grand transgressives lose in courage for doing the permissible, they gain in evil genius for finding offence’s fault lines. It’s no easy feat to offend the über liberal, but entirely necessary. Apathy reigns still.
The neo-Bruces of our post-pig-nationalist-rainbow-themed-hugfest have a tremendous job at hand. That’s why comedians are venerated, these true adherents to that Brucian, ‘it aint a party till there’s heroin’ timeless spirit.
He went to the highest court for making a jerking-off motion with his hand. Our high court’s may ignore our jesters, but there’s another tribunal in receipt of what Vlismas calls, “the 702 morality”, and it’s itching for a fight.
Ah, the glorious stand-off, so tricksy to define, so beautiful to behold. Go watch Sex, Live at the Lyric to see what I mean.
There’s a serious question to ask. Where to now for the DA and Agang. Not serious for everyone, but serious enough for those who care for a healthy democracy. The DA is too important to be fucked with on this level.
I believe in the ANC, in fact I love it, its calibre of grit has to be of the greatest the world has ever seen, but they’re fucking up.
Simply put Jacob Zuma shouldn’t be president, of the ANC or the country. He’s not the guy. Umsholozi doesn’t love us, nor we him. I want a piercing intellect with a heart of gold. These arent my president’s characteristics. He’s an old school chauvinist not in command of his faculties. Especially alongside stately men like Cyril Ramaphosa, Kgalema Motlanthe and Aaron Motsoaledi.
That’s why the ANC, our glorious ANC, need an opposition with teeth. Shit like this weekend betwixt the Gogos simply isn’t good enough. That the official opposition let’s something as significant as a presidential candidate slip so obscurely, the mind boggles.
I’m peeved that Ramphele didn’t sweat it out because I, like many, feel the official opposition should be demographically congruent. Sure it is lower down, but as long as there’s a white face on the official opposition it’s going to struggle. We’re too near that filthy fascistic chapter called apartheid for anything else to make sense.
With Cope having sued itself broke, Agang rudderless and the EFF overflowing with the epitome of irresponsible lefty twaddle we need the DA. Not to lead, but to step on the ANC’s toes. Here in Jozi we have Musi Maimane, a solid DA’anite, that he wasn’t chosen above Mamphele surprises me. I know he’s young and still finding his feet, but you know who isn’t, Rampiepie, and look how well that worked.
With a big dick opposition comes the realization within the ANC that having Umsholozi as our president is bad a move. It’s time for a stately big hearted intellectual to fill those over priced shoes.
Political commentators have a terrible habit of not using the words cunt or motherfucker. I understand that this could be a misogyny issue. So I’ll add cock and arsehole to the mix. I know arseholes aren’t gender specific, but it’s been accepted as a male orientated affair. Not that I haven’t met any female arseholes, I just find them so goddamn interesting.
My point is that formal political discourse need not be done in a formal way. Our country, with its decidedly poisonous hangover, is not peopled by the limp wristed. We’re tough, or, not to lose the intended thread here, a tough bunch of cunts.
Transgressive anything; comedy, fiction, film making or in this case, commentary or social provacateuring, remains a tricksy affair. It’s a little like BEE, not for everyone and polarising in merit. Though transgressive art forms have benevolent intent they’re almost always not encountered as such. I don’t want to oversell the plain old joy of being disgusting for its own sake. We’re a over stimulated & spoilt generation born into sin. With work environs that render ANYTHING permissible as long as the work is of a certain scratch.
I’m not trying to blame my environment, I’m trying to compliment it. It’s hands down the most exciting time to be alive, in the entire history of people. We have resources like no other generation before us. My outdated blackberry contains billions of ideas, every master ever published can be read through it’s scratchy little screen. A last word on this transgressive obsession, to better understand watch the comedy of Richard Pryor, Doug Stanhope, Bill Bur, Louis CK, Patrice O’Neal,George Carlin, Jim Jefferies and while we’re punting, Loyiso Gola, Trevor Gumbi, John Vlismas, Kagiso Lediga, Martin Evans and Alyn Adams. Thinking man’s filth.
The national political landscape is a complex affair, our shit stained past has made any kind of commentary a decidedly bellicose affair. Solidarity of intent and the difference of opinion are too often confused. Debates turn to racially charged fuck-tastrophes before you can say rainbow. We’re getting better though, I see consensus growing and old wounds healing. Stadiums filled with boos and colour blind alliances, not to mention the ever-growing throng of asexual, race ignoring, hipsters.
We are free, there’s no denying that. Some of us are hampered by realizing our freedom more than others. An economic divide the size of Khulubusa Zuma matched with the fiscal integrity of a tik addict will have that effect. Yet it’s not only the have nots that suffer this want of freedom. The walled in middle class social slobs whisper endlessly, “they’re coming for us”, “it’s not safe”. Inequality will always have a neurotic timbre, as Zack De La Rocha reminds, “hungry people don’t stay hungry for long.” But it’s not just hunger is it, a heroic dose of self actualization has been promised, yet the ball remains in the wrong tennis court.
That’s fear mongering.
Reckless commie braying.
Yes, yes it is.
So we must, like the brilliant Francesco Clemente, attempt to transcend the boundaries of self. Cry with strange mourners, feel hunger in the dependants of others and make many other crucial confrontations with the truth.
Where do we start?
By aligning ourselves to the tried and tested big dickery that has guided us this far.
Nelson Mandela, Chris Hani, Walter Sisulu, Joe Slove, Oliver Tambo and Steve Biko are the right kind of twisted genius for the job at hand.
Their ideas need to become ours.
What else? I guess we vote, with our eyes wide open.
So what’s the checklist. Read a lot, check. Vote, check.
Now, could there be anything else?
Perhaps the how, how we interact and engage. Style.
My hope is that interesting & transgressive intentions aren’t drowned out by the bulk of beige bullying that cotemporary muster buckles under.
That and a few dick jokes.
Peace out cunts.
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