Against the Brain

So a chance encounter with talk radio this week quelled the minor doubts i had about the competence of our friends government and their rivals, opposition.

The big topic was Thabo's house, and the high-whips from both clans were present. Mbulelo and Douglas wasted no time feeling each other out. Neither honourable member would stand for it, regardless of what the other was saying. This is the (rough) transcript (in a few lines) of what these two articulate and esteemed politicians had to say to each other in their short tit fot tit. The (ever so slightly) ANC leaning presenter asked the boys if the DA should apologise for blowing things out of proportion. So... Here we go:

Douglas: "the ANC must apologise to the people of this country for blah blahblah

Mbulelo: "the DA are the ones who need to apologise for blah blah

Douglas: blah blah

Mbulelo: blah blah... this is only happening because its an african president

Douglas: you calling me a racist?

Caller: (a Miss S. Hitstirer from Tweebuffelsmeteenkoeldoodgeskietfontein): "The DA is racist because it's actually the old NP"

Douglas: "The ANC is the new NP! Are you calling me a racist? You're a racist!"

Mbulelo: "The reason the old Nats joined the ANC is because the DA is racist. That's why i'm not a racist!"

Good one, that, methinks, but maybe he should have just stopped there. But you know he didn't...

Mbulelo: "All ex-presidents get their security needs paid for by government; why don't you go to Wilderness and make a noise about PW De Klerks house?!..."

So we stop there. For not much more was decipherable with the chief-halfwits shouting over each other and slinging personal insults over the wireless. A good word is farce. Apathy are another

it breaks my heart, and hurts my head

when i think of what the fella said

potato and root and erectile erectors

showers and vitamins and the mini-skirt factor

he broke his heart with his head,

and everyone wondered what he said

a tweak of the teat and abusive abuse

terrorists and whores and a fascist doos

your heart is broke so use your head

and look at all the people dead

the fear and hate and the peacemakers piece

what a relief, this car's only a lease

your heart is fine but what about your head?

and all those books you say you've read?

surely you now know the solution to our ills

can only be in happy pills

A warm welcome to all, from prospective constituents interested in lending a hand in growing this revolutionary party, to the curious, and even the just plain apathetic, if you're even listening.

If you're reading this, there's a fairly good chance you might have heard of the MsP. If not, allow me to fill you in.

MsP, of course, stands for the Multi sized Party. We are a political party, and we have a cause. Headed by the charismatic statesman B.G. Smalls, the MsP calls not for reform, but revolution. Mr Smalls, coincidentally, is a little person. He is also the best hope our country has of fulfilling its potential. He lives by the mantra: 'if you're not a little person, you just dont know'.

But enough about the big man. You'll be hearing alot more from him. I'm the MsP's resident 'spolitics' guru. And this is what i have to say.

Our 'Rainbow Nation' shed much of it's pre-freedom baggage through sport. We at the MsP believe that sport will play a major role in normalising size-relations in our beautiful country.

The MsP intends on initiating a focused drive towards full integration in sports. We have athletes of all colours competing in almost all sports. Even the Blue Bulls rugby team has two black players competing at any given time. Annika Sorenstam and Michelle Wie compete, and compete well, against men. We have athletes of many nations, competing against each other in every conceiveable sport. But where are the Little People? Why is there no Schalk Brits or Luke Watson or some other small person in the Springbok rugby team? Why does Hashim Amla have to grow a beard to look big enough to play international cricket? Questions for another post, no doubt.

The MsP has appointed independant watchdog FRIS (Forging Representivity in Sports) to ensure that little people can shine as well. We need YOUR voice too. Contact us and we'll tell you what to do.

Watch for my next instalment, when we talk to the two black players on the Blue Bulls team. In Pretoria, they're little people.

A thousand apologies to my legions of dedicated readers for the lack of a decent recent post. I have written stuff, but thought better of posting. Too controversial. And my mom reads this blog. Which would explain all the viewed posts. Thanks Ma.

Anyway, just to help you guys feel better during this time of stress... It's nonsense rhyme time! I call this one the ode to the commode. Just kidding. I don't have a title, because i'm making this up as i go along.

The end of term has come and exams are round the bend.Now I wish i'd paid attention, or made a clever friend. Tests and deadlines and stress and blank minds, i think i'm gonna explode. Should have used that title because there's a word that rhymes with commode!

So to all of you with shit overdue and and only two damn hands. Spare a thought for an animal in a zoo or a band without no fans. At least you're not starving or imprisoned or just plain stupid. So stop ****ing complaining and get on with it you whining idiots!

my doctor doesn't like sport. Actually, that should read, the doctor i last visited doesn't like sport. i went to him for a medical note, but he seemed to take a strange anthropological interest in me.

"Sports journalist?" he asked breezily, scribbling away thoughtfully. Well, slowly, at least "Sport is a waste of time; it's the reason we allow things to just get worse and worse" "And your name, thats interesting" I don't really know whether i should have put a question mark there. "Yes it is, doc."" I don't exactly know, my great grandfather was a stowaway on the banana boat." "Depends what you mean by practising, doc. If you mean do i not not practice it, then yes"

What a strange man, i thought. But definitely worth the sick note. Still. A young doctor. Who hates sport. and religion. Then it hit me. Was i playing him? Or him me. Was he just another gullible MD buying the whole schpiel, or was he a voyoristic docteur, getting off on the whole scientific power relation thing, trashing the things i seem to hold dear?

With apologies to the sacroD, in an effort to engage the masses, i will end this post with a question

Do yous think the doctor was treating me as a case-study on the fraudulent acquisitions of sick-notes, or was he just a witless prejudicial social leper? (This means COMMENT)

though i hate to talk Zumatics, this i need to say. I'ts more than a bit scary how the country seems to be splitting down racial lines in the emancipation / hang-draw-quartering of the former Dep. Prez.

The voices of vilification are probably right that this guy is not the man for the job. The Shaik trial, you feel, is just a taste of what's to come. So ujayzee's corrupt. So's every politician from the house of commons to hyderabad. Even Madiba would have succumbed, had he been a decade or two younger. Zuma's problem is that he's just not good enough at it.

Now for the other bit. Is ujayzee a rapist? Is he being amateurishly framed? Hard to say. His invocation of Zulu culture to defend himself though, might turn out to be a masterstroke. Much less of a might is whether this whole issue is tugging hard at the stitches of our coat of many colours, dividing us even further.

The media now attacks these supposed Zulu cultural conventions through Zuma. This, not surprisingly (to myself at least) gets the back of the black man up, and polarises the nation according to pigment. The equally passionate defend-at-all-costs position taken by many blacks re-inforces this cycle.

So what do we know for sure? Not too much, actually. We know ujayzee's not too bright. He's also corrupt. We know that the complainant has cried wolf before. We know that a lot of people would like to see zuma as the next president. We also know that a lot of people would not.

Out with the crystal ball. Here are my predictions for the future of us and him. He will be not be found guilty of rape. He will then be found guilty of corruption. He will remain in politics, but will not become president. We will continue to live in this society striated by the skin. We will continue to find issues to perpetuate divisions and alienate cultures. And we may get to the quarter finals of the 2010 world cup. The crystal ball's going all fuzzy, but it seems to be Sibusiso Zuma who scores the winning goal and reclaims his name.

"The problem with religion, my easily swayed friend, is without a doubt religious people". "Just like the problem with drugs is the drug user, or the problem with politics- politicians". He sounded convincing enough. Then again, i am easily swayed.

"If there was no leash, there'd still be the dog". "Are you saying the leash is the problem?" i asked, hoping to sound profound. He gave me a momentary glance. Expressionless. "My point", he inhaled,looking back at the dead bird "is that it's all an issue of perspective." "Whether the oasis is a mirage or not, do you not still see it?"

"So you're saying that religion is all a problem of perspective?" "Now I see why you're so easily swayed", he mumbled dismissively. "I'm saying that perspective is a problem of religion." "So the problem with politics is the politicians?", i attempted. "Now you're thinking thoughtfully". "Are you saying that a drug problem has you?"

I always had a feeling podgy propagandster Michael Moore was a big fat liar. Now I know for sure. We believed when he went north over the Hudson or whatever river to show us how safe and pretty life was in Canada. He made those Hoosers seem so nice. But the truth must prevail.

The Canadian government is right in the middle of a mass murder of a murderous magnitude! Thousands upon thousands upon thousands of cuddly seals are being butchered as we speak. The Canadian government has repeatedly asserted that it does not not do body counts on seals, but the Humane Society of the United States estimates a death toll that already looks to exceed 300 000.

Its heartening to see celebrities lending theirs to the voices of the oppressed and downtrodden. Good on you Sir Paul and Linda. You get the feeling, though, that the wife's just involved to make sure the seal burger idea is terminated at birth. Good on you Ms. Bardot, for highlighting the problem of the seal pelts and the powdered penises which are the real reason behind this war on this most cute of unbelievably smelly animals.

So what's to be done? Well, that's as difficult a question as whether Michael Moore should be grilled or spit-braaied. The question we should be asking ourselves, is why are the seals called 'Harp', and the Prime Minister 'Harper'. Maybe we should just leave those Canucks alone.

Looks like Eskom's about to take another blow. As if ineptitude and and poor planning aint enough, there's about to be a sharp rise in the national demand for electricity. On second thought, that depends. Did ujayzee take a hot or cold shower?

Since i'm not too sure, lets just say that it looks like water restrictions are here to stay. On the bright side, another repercussion of kameelkop's power shower could be a sharp downturn in the vitamin sales of the good doctor Wrath. It would seem though, that the (latter) deluded one's come upon a contingency plan. He's now made the groundbreaking discovery that vitamins will prevent (or is that cure?) bird flu. From an imaginary cure for a real disease to an imaginary cure for an imaginary disease.

So while the health ministry stocks up on vitamins and portable showers, and those evil birds make their way towards us from the mountain springs of the French Alps, Eskom will be able to breath a sigh of relief.

Darkness, after all, means nothing in death.

They're uncouth. They're smelly. They speak funny. They've wiped out an entire indigenous population. And these days whenever you switch on the TV you're faced with their leader, spitting righteously into his hands and telling you how it is.

Frankly, the sooner we see the backs of these Aussie goons the sooner we can get back to our hate charged lives in this society that we love so well. I think it was John Cleese as one of the French soldiers in The Search for the Holy Grail that uttered those immortal words- 'I fart in your general direction!'

So, to every pompous nosepicking sheepshagger within earshot, i'd like to confess a more than mild dislike. Dont get me wrong. I'm not a racist. Some of my best friends are aussies. It's just that i'm purposefully ignoring the fact that i've met good Australians in favour of a more balanced blanket animosity towards the convict race as a whole. With the noble aim of being non-discriminatory in my prejudices, i'd like to also include New Zealanders in the 'fart in your general direction' category. The black caps are, after all, not far away from adding insult and injury to the insult and injury already piled on by mick dundee and his mates over the last month or so. Let's call it a pre-emptive strike.

I suppose things could be worse. Imagine having our beloved university overrun by gangs of funny speaking, smelly and uncouth nation wiper-outers, colonizing African Lit and History classes and spreading the gospel of righteous condescension?

Now that would, like, just not be cool.

Azz.

'What do you mean i'm disqualified!', i protested loudly. 'Aren't you supposed to step on the line?' The Slav checked me. Easy for him to do. He was way out in the lead. The legion of red bull blondes stood all around me; smiling like stepford wives. 'Maybe you should go easy on the red bull', sniggered the Slav. The wives liked that one. He knew i was his only real competition. I knew that the secret was in the symmetry. And in the flick of the wrists. Something, admittedly, that he had had more practice at than myself. So i thought i'd be the bigger man, and decided not to contest my disqualification. And had another red bull

So the Slav won UCT's Red Bull Paper Wings' competition (long distance category).He gets flown to Joburg in a month to contest the national finals. If he wins that, he goes to Austria for the world championship of paper jet piloting. The late Mr Thulsie would be turning in his grave

The footsteps from down the corridor became louder. They echoed as if the concrete was hollow, recoiling also from those massive feet. The midget kid was the only one who didn't notice Mr Thulsie coming. Thulsie was a giant of a man. At least it seemed that way to a troop of ten year olds. They called him ten-past-ten. This was nothing temporal. It was about the direction of his feet when he walked. The little kid kept folding away at his paper jet. It wasn't half bad a jet, looking back. Probably more suited to hang time than distance. I held tight to the three pieces of string in my hand as Thulsie forced his way through the doorway. Everyone plaiting away. Except the little kid. Thulsie reached over to him without warning, grabbed him by the ears and yanked him clean off the ground. I suppose the class would be called woodwork now. But to indian affairs it was handicraft. So the small kid wasn't doing too much wrong in crafting a paper jet. Which is probably why he looked so confused flying through the air by his ears. 'You don't make paper plane in my class gadeiro', he fumed. 'I say make playt, you make playt, understand big ears? The kid would have nodded if he could. Thulsie dropped the boy and turned to the rest of us. 'You vill newwer make living from paper plane'. 'Now finish playting and you vill get early break'. I was going to ask him how we were going to make money from plaiting but decided against it

'Remember', slurred the Slav, 'to make sure it's perfectly symmetrical'. 'It'll give you at least another ten metres'. 'Symmetry to the point of stupidity' , he chanted as he fashioned another. The simplicity and efficiency of design had them all in awe. The sharp lines; the clean corners. The Slav eyed the blonde in the corner with a half smile. She was over in a split second, zipping open her satchel. 'You boys waunt another?', she said in her pseudo-Mediterranian drawl. It wasn't a question. 'Do you think you can handle another?' i asked the Slav, concerned. Before he could answer, she'd slammed another two on the table, and opened them (she had to, she said). 'Cheers', the Slav called out, mostly to me, partly to the gaurana gods. 'here's to red bull giving me wings'. 'Hey, now i get it!' I announced. He looked blankly at me for a second, then turned his attention back to his paper plane.

for those who found my last post mildly uninteresting because of all the sport-speak, sorry. my next post will be free of all sporting jargon, references, and behaviour. I will hopefully be discussing things more pertinent, such as the benefits of power-cuts, and the oft-overlooked link between Eskom and Al-qaeda

So after spending another depressing Saturday afternoon at Newlands ruckby stadium (or as a friend put it, after spending another 80 bucks for the Stormers to depress us), i could have been forgiven for hoping for Seffrican sporting redemption would be delivered through our choke-prone cricketers on the Sabbath. But alas, just a day after the Hurricanes caned the lesser of the natural disasters, many a sporting fan would have been rubbing disbelievingly at their long suffering eyes at the Aussies klapping us to all ends of the Wanderers on Sunday morning. The wondrous thing is that no-one had left the stadium before the men in green had even started their reply. I suppose they reasoned that the money was spent, so they might as well drink away the blues. That would explain the football-stadium like madness as captain Graeme 'bum chin' Smith joined pot-head prodigy Herchelle Gibbs in breaking numerous cricketing records, not to mention a few cocky Australian hearts, in what is now hailed as the 'best game ever'- of cricket that is. Taking a cue from his cricket team, an Aussie has been charged by Sydney police with 'reversing further than necessary'. The guy travelled backwards on one of the country's busiest highways for over 40 kilometres, and had another 90 to go before he reached his destination. The car was unregistered, the driver unlicensed, and the reverse gear the only gear that worked. I don't think there could be much more said about that.