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By Peter Wilhelm
Tears gushed like dripping taps from my reddened eyeballs as I read of the horrible conditions prevailing at Nkandla, the presidential homestead. Like the ANC galoots who were part of the parliamentary delegation to inspect the majestic palace (as the tabloids sneeringly describe it) I was appalled by the gaps in the fencing through which starving folk crept to filch a sandpiper or its century-old-eggs. They could be terrorists!
Worse: the site was lying supine for the kind of apocalyptic fires that ravaged Cape Town earlier this year, destroying the natural habitat of tortoises and blue cranes, not to mention visiting war criminals and BRICS bankers in a serial panic having to lend us money to build nuclear fusion bicycles.
The need to further upgrade the facilities is picayune. It can easily be covered by selling shark fins sliced off in the great cull to come if they are not to be further beaten up by Australian surfers. The only excuse for the Oz people is that they have an inheritance of violence dating decades back when the first nation was classified as flora and fauna.
Furthermore, if China’s economic spurt is really slowing, and they will import fewer commodities such as shark fins and Woolworth’s plastic shopping bags, we must be on the alert for war. Lesotho is looking increasingly miffed and might drop an A-bomb on Nkandla. Where would Jacob Zuma skulk?
The firepool definitely needs deepening – possibly by several hundred metres to house an underwater Jacuzzi in a dome.
First Nkandla, now my malodorous neighbour Gatvol van der Pomp’s homestead has come under scrutiny. A delegation of astrologists, phrenologists, those who read entrails for omens, and survivors of ET kidnappings as targets of whispery grey entities (who travel billions of light years for this purpose and snip DNA from their toes) has been focusing its scientific prowess on the Van der Pomp range.
I snuck in behind them to observe – now that nothing can ever be a secret again, we are all entitled to media accreditation for our bullshit blogs.
Of course, Gatvol is not (or is not yet) the President or his clinging pomp. The best description would be that he is a layabout criminal, like a pimp for whom others do all the work while he caresses his albino cats like Blofeld and his sinister pussy.
As Minister Without Portfolio his job is to ensure that SUVs only carry i-Phone babbling moms and kids to school without using Uber technology. As a perquisite of the job, he leaves that to the cops who have AEK-971s from Degtyarev in the Soviet Union (sorry: Russia). Let some mom in her Humvee try to abscond with her iPhone from the force and she’ll be stitched, as old Rhodesians put it.
So what did we find on penetrating Gatvol’s sanctuary?
• The razor-wire had been electrified using cellphone batteries. These run out swiftly – and the loops of copper thrown over the wires above succeed only in paralysing the drug-sniffer dogs for a sweet eternal nap.
• An underground cable must be laid from the new Chernobyl at the top of the mountain so that the dogs get blasted by 10-million tons of TNT. As their radioactive ash blows away in a fresh south-easter, gawkers will be abashed. They won’t spy on Gatvol and guests such as Sean Penn.
• The firepool comprises an old, rusty, leaky water tank. It’s quite green and just below the surface you can make out the shape of an Australian-seeking Great White, penned in.
• An Olympic-sized pool needs installation. That would give the shark sufficient room to gulp down bikini babes (or six-pack guys: no sexism please, we’re South African).
• The private zoo is too large for the defenestrated rhinos; they must be kept behind super-hollow-circle Oreos to woo the little ones. And the aviary has too many pterodactyls and too few hadedas. The feral cats that roam the sprawls of the bunker can’t reach the canaries trilling at the love-birds like thugby fans. Put them up on Facebook as fresh spice for cat-ladies who write novels.
• The gym cannot be entered. This is largely because Gatvol’s transgendered son/daughter (an enormous furry ball with carefully clipped eye-holes) bounces off the walls, maddened by the Stormers’ decision not to play her/him forward. It doubles as a pigsty with some cute piglets.
• What is really essential is a Virgin Active gym. The assorted indigents, hookers, extended families (within which the High Court has deemed incest legal since it constitutes a constitutional right) – all can lie on their rear cushions in position to be rescued by heart-attack first responders.
A bloated paradise, you accuse. Not at all. From one presidency to the next, a species of monarchical succession is essential. And please put noodles on the menu.
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