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 My outdated blackberry contains billions of ideas, every master ever published can be read through it’s scratchy little screen.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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