An Open Letter to Walter Palmer

Dear Wally,

Congratulations on becoming an international star on the Internet. I have tried, too, to become famous, but it hasn’t happened quickly for me. Neither has it been fast for you, I believe. Your first brush with fame was when you made headlines for a sexual assault charge. The charges disappeared quickly, or was that your manhood? I can’t be sure.

Then in 2008 you had another go when you shot a bear. But that turned ugly when they nearly arrested you. They say things happen in 3’s. Looks like they’re right. After shooting Cecil the Zimbabwean lion you have exploded on the net. Some people wish it was literally though. Strange how the hunter always becomes the hunted? Just when you think you’ve topped the food chain.

The backlash on the Internet seems to have affected you in the way of mending teeth. Your practice has now been closed for a few days. Some say you’ve bitten off more than you can chew. Cant be, though, you’re a dentist. Even though dentists aren’t real doctors. 

After shooting Cecil you said you had no knowledge of him being famous. That’s an awful lot of money and effort to kill an old lion. I wouldn’t have gone to all that effort. Maybe that’s why I never made medical school.

You should have tried going to the Kruger Park. For that money I’m sure they’d let you use nuclear weapons. More bang for your buck. Or Lion. Whatever.

Apparently you had a vehicle drag a dead animal along in order to lure Cecil out of the bush. This must be a new means of hunting; get the animal to come to you. Quite clever how things advance. Even fishing in a barrel seems difficult by comparison.  

A story on the news said that Cecil was skinned and left beheaded. If all you wanted was a lion head and skin, there are plenty of knock-offs around these days. You can get a handcrafted lookalike for next to nothing. I got the knock-off plastic version, but then again my knockers aren’t as large as yours to go into the wild and get the real deal.

Speaking of knockers, there’s talk that you’re going to make a court appearance, and if found guilty you could possibly face jail time. A word of advice from someone who lives on the African continent: Ingratiate yourself with the right crowd. Men in African prisons are extremely passionate and your sentence could seem like one long honeymoon. But I am sure a man who’s handled himself so well with beasts will have no trouble warding off mere human mortals.

An idea I have for when you return to the United States and resume the life you left before venturing to Zimbabwe. I suggest you look to invest in a Sony PlayStation and hunting games. That way you can hunt all the worlds’ animals into extinction without breaching the law. But more importantly it will keep your mind off the real thing. If you come here again one can’t promise that you won’t become a trophy yourself.

Good Riddance 

The Heavies Always Go Hungry

A few weeks back a friend of mine decided to have a braai and invite a couple of mates around for the day. I wasn’t really in the mood for a get-together but I couldn’t say the same about my desire for meat. So I figured, ‘oh what the hell’. Not like, not like I’ll open my freezer and miraculously find meat there.

After arriving I did the rounds and greeted everyone, then grabbed a seat and joined my peers in discussion. But because I arrived fashionably late, my chair was not so much a chair as what it was an old tomato crate. Bloody misers.

I soon grew bored of chatting and started to feel peckish so I went to the snack table to help myself. Around the table were tons of gorgeous ladies and other guests helping themselves to food.

Everyone was picking at the snacks except the larger beings. Make no mistake, they were there too, standing alongside the table, but they didn’t eat. Instead they ogled everyone else and gave horrified looks every time someone put something tasty into their mouths.

I couldn’t figure out why they just stood there sneaking peaks at those eating. The food was there for everyone to nibble on. Besides, it’s not like anyone would be surprised at seeing a fat person eat. Not like they got to a heart-attack provoking size by running on a treadmill and eating lettuce and cucumber.

Eventually some of the fat folks couldn’t take it anymore. They started to sneak handfuls of peanuts into their mouths, and then tried disguising their chewing by bending down to tie shoelaces. Other large guys didn’t want to follow suit so to avoid hunger pains they just drank themselves drunk.

The drinks were flowing, people were getting hammered and the fatties were ravenous. Some of them even considered picking off the weaker looking people at the braai. They wore frowns on their faces – the sort of look that can kill a man provided he can be eaten thereafter.

Finally, the hosts summoned us to the main table to eat. People stood in line like fat kids at a candy sale. Some of the slimmer guests surprised me by snatching T-bone steaks that looked like someone had hacked off a rhino’s leg, thrashed it with a hammer and then cooked it. This angered the hell out of the portly people who were standing further back in the queue. This is because when everyone else went in, they attacked the snack tray outside...

For the rest of this piece you will need to grab a copy of the book inside all CNA, Exclusive books and Estoril book stores nationwide, for R120

Waiting Out the Weight Issues

Almost overnight I have developed a fear of putting on weight. Please keep the sniggering to yourself. It’s not only supermodels and women who shove toothbrushes down their gullets post dining that fear getting on a bathroom scale.

Putting on weight is a sneaky business. Today you’re on the scale and all’s good, and the next day kids are fighting for their turn to ride on your back while mimicking elephant sounds.

Here’s the thing with diets, one slip up and you’re ruined. There are those skinny bastards who frown and scratch their heads at the mention of dieting, so for those individuals with the semblance of a worn-out broom, here’s what I mean.

A few weeks ago I started a new job. It’s one of those jobs that make you run around a lot and tons of sweating is involved. I didn’t realise it then but the heavy work and constant running around allowed me to shed a pound. Actually 15. Imagine the joy of losing weight without actually dieting.

Easy enough, I thought. I will just carry on doing whatever it is I’m doing and the weight will just fall off. Sounds logical to me anyway.

As is the case with most people who are gradually losing weight, I wanted to double the amount I lost and do it in even less time. So I started eating grapes. I have heard that the grape diet is not only good for you but also makes you lose weight like Oscar Pistorius in the presence of Gerrie Nel.

It worked. To speed up the process even more I cut out all soft drinks and anything that contains sugar. Then meat had to go, but the chicken could stay. The weight was melting off but so was my trust of food. Eventually I started giving lettuce and beetroot the suspicious eye and accusing it of harbouring fats.

After another few days I found myself sitting in the corner of the kitchen staring at the fridge. I felt too guilty to even open it. Beyond the white door and the habitual squeak lay heaven; but the slightest motion towards it would allow guilt to consume me. Eating anything at this stage induces herculean bouts of shame. So I figured if I lay beneath the kitchen counter and the house keeper accidentally wipes crumbs off the table and they happen to land in my trap, then it could not be construed as deliberate eating. We’ll call it an accidental case of crumbs being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

When on a diet one tends to balance rather precariously on the edge. Well, I fell right off the fucking cliff, to put it bluntly. My moment of weakness possessed me completely. The error was going to the fridge to fetch a diet-yoghurt in the early morning hours. My ability to make sound judgements at this time is usually poor and therefore I landed up grabbing the peach flavour, along with the margarine, pesto spread, sliced ham, a packet of chips from the cupboard, some chicken pieces the rest had eaten, and whatever else I could consume without spewing. I hadn’t eaten that well in almost two months. Ergo I ate not until I was full but until my arms grew tired. And that carried on for some time as well, taking me back to my former plump self weighing in at an impressive three digit number.

Although I do not plan on staying this way, I have not yet mustered up the courage (read: delusion) to have another go at this pound-shedding shit. My past experiences dictate that its returns is not that far away and that history will repeat itself as it always does. Though, for now, let’s tuck into a double cheese burger and fries. Make it two. 

Driving Lesson 101

A characteristic about me is that I enjoy a bit of an adventure, within limits, of course. I see nothing wrong with having a right foot made of lead when the occasion calls for it. Let’s just say it makes for some excitement and a good thrill from time to time.

Recently, I was unfortunate enough to hitch a ride to work with a friend of mine who also works in Randburg, Johannesburg. This concerned me as I know he has the driving ability of a senile senior citizen. Another worry was the fact that he is virtually blind and drives on instinct.

The truth is that I am a very nervous passenger in a car, and with this guy at the wheel, my gut suggested that I should’ve stocked up on Valium. The only thing that seemed to calm me down was the fact that he is not prone to road rage, but then again, I don’t think most people are.

That morning he collected me from my house and we set off for another day at work. At first, the visually impaired chauffeur was considerate as to my intentions to continue breathing without the assistance of a heart-lung machine. But, at some point that all went out the window, along with my deaf-defying screeching. The madness began when, out of the blue, Satan took hold of the wheel to steer us on a path of destruction.

The lunatic behind the wheel then decides to attempt what is known to petrol heads as a drift. The car skidded around the 90 degree corner at about 87km/h, making my eyeballs switch sockets with the G’s the car was pulling. Even Lewis Hamilton would have discharged his food southwards at that moment.

I glanced over at the devil to see why in God’s name he would attempt such a moronic manoeuvre. Through his bus-shield glasses, he looked at me and yelled with excitement. I imagine men let out such noises during mid-castration. If it wasn’t for the fact that we could have had an accident, I would have sunk my teeth into the porky brother. I couldn’t believe that a man who calls himself my friend would drive like that and put my life at risk!

Hell-raiser then saw another opportunity to wreak havoc on Jo’burg roads. Stupidly enough, he drove up behind taxis, trying to force them off the road so that he could pass. It doesn’t take an astrophysicist to realise that a paleface is no match for the 38 occupants of the 12-seater. To make matters worse, the taxi driver lost his cool and beckoned to the beach ball to pull over to resolve the issue.

I could see where this was heading. I was on the verge of losing a friend, plus I would have the additional chore of waiting at the morgue for his parent’s arrival. He then tried getting out the car to accost the taxi driver, using intimidating tactics like cracking his fleshy knuckles...

For the rest of this column, head to Exclusive Books or CNA and grab a copy of ‘Don’t Judge this Book by the Cover’, for R120.00. Alternatively you can purchase it from Kalahari and have it dropped off at your house. Below is the link.

Woe Awaits the Challenger

One naturally assumes the older you get, the wiser you become. This is a lie that has been perpetuated from generation to generation. It is only when one becomes involved in a relationship with the opposite sex that you realise how wrong you have been all along.

As a man, you feel duty bound to defend your spouse with all you have. She is, after all, the bearer of your children and the one who prepares your Med Lemon when you’re sick and sound like Snorre De Villiers.

Notwithstanding their kindness and tyranny masqueraded as affection, the truth is: as a man you are always wrong. For the younger men out there who feel they rule the household, this is a delusion that your better half allows you to think. Wait till you get older. If it wasn’t for the fact that cross-dressing isn’t socially acceptable, my lady would have me prancing around in her dresses and size 14 pants all day.

And the longer one remains in a relationship, the more things you find to argue about. For instance, when we first began dating, I’d choose the restaurants where we would dine. As a lady with a voracious appetite, she eats just about anything. Of late, she has developed an acute disparagement for everything I thought she enjoyed. She will argue to the death that she has never liked shellfish, yet our first date was at a seafood restaurant. I remember this because she is the only human I have ever seen who ate prawns, shell and all.

Admittedly, learning how to deal with women doesn’t come naturally. This is presumably why younger men have a hard time making it beyond the three-year phase. For them, they’re still under that illusion of being correct and having a right to voice their opinions.

I learned early on in my relationship that the only reason I have a voice is to generate an income through my radio show. Otherwise, and more particularly when I’m at home, it serves no purpose whatsoever.....

For further reading, copies of the book ‘Don’t Judge this Book by the Cover’ are available at Exclusive Books and CNA stores nationwide. You can order the book from Kalahari as well if you so wish. The link is below.

Some of my Best Friends are Drunks

Being a Monday and not a particularly busy one at that, I originally planned on staying indoors and doing something constructive like read a book or clip my toe nails. That’s when I remembered that I only had to be at work at 9 a.m. the following day so I may as well go out for a single drink. You know, one of those innocent night caps that helps ease one into slumber mode.

So my mate and I land up at the pub, the one we always go to. He, being the responsible one, orders a glass of water and I order a Brutal Fruit. There we are chatting away to our mates and reliving memories from the New Year’s party.

Suddenly more of our friends rock up there. These aren’t just any friends, they’re drunks. But because we still felt fragile and delicate from the previous three days, we decided to take it easy. By this stage I had consumed about four Brutals, and my friend, about three litres of good quality H20.

Eventually the Brutals started talking to me in a fruity kind of way and encouraged me to become braver and imbibe even more of the poison, this time accompanied by the dwarfish devils – shooters.

Before I knew it, my mate traded in the water for beer while I had an array of empty tot glasses lined up in front of me. I think I did Manthu proud. This was the point of no return; the moment when it would take a miracle of biblical proportions to save me. I was going down at a rate of tots.

I went cross-eyed and wasn’t capable of audible speech. If rumours are to be believed, I was conversing in something similar to Shangaan and Swahili. Ordering beer became impossible as the barman had to decipher a collection of clicking sounds to understand what I wanted.

At some stage I managed to lose my friend among the rowdy pub-goers. When I found him, he was engaged in some an argument with an empty tot glass that needed replenishing. Due to my inebriated state I could have the facts muddled up......

For more, check out the book ‘Don’t Judge this Book by the Cover’ which is available in all Exclusive Books and CNA stores nationwide. Alternatively you can purchase a copy from Kalahari. The link is below.

Second-hand car dealers

There is a surfeit of contempt I keep in the large mass that is my body, and this is reserved mostly for telemarketers, Metro cops, politicians and, of late, second-hand car salesman.

You see, after four years of utter devoutness my Golf Gti finally passed away. She vomited oil all over the driveway and decided at the most inopportune moment that she wasn’t reporting for work. And that’s how I found myself standing in a car dealership looking for a new set of wheels.

I had a look at the new Golf Gti, but because I have owned 3 of them in the past I figured I would go for something else instead. Then I saw the 1M BMW, a car out of my price range and that would only be good to hasten my death. Even the BMW X5 is nauseatingly pricy; though, I could have it provided I ate beans and lawn clippings for the remainder of the five year payment plan.

Here’s the thing, cars are too bloody expensive. Even the crappy Japanese ones. And these aren’t even the one’s I’d be interested in owning. Then, there are the brands I like, which at this point in time are a complete fantasy unless I steal a set of keys to Patrice Motsepe’s house and befriend his wife. 

I sulked for an hour, eventually swallowed my pride and headed for a pre-owned dealership. In other words I resorted to buying someone else’s shit. Yes, pre-owned cars are about as cool as elephantitis.

That’s when I found her, a C Class 230 sports coupe; the one I have always wanted. The skidonk Benz had about 300 million miles on the clock, but the salesman assured me it’s had one owner – a woman who shudders at the thought of speed and red-lining the rev- counter – also, it’s never skipped a service. The package seemed so good I was tempted to ask if they offered happy endings.

Two days later I signed the deal and traded in the dilapidated piece of Volkswagen nonsense and drove off in my Benz, Beyonce belting out her notes while I puffed away on my ciggie: bliss.

At 10:00 the following Wednesday she wouldn’t start. Being the ever optimist I figured I’d push her down the drive and allow her to catch speed before trying to get her going. Bum in seat, I positioned the review so I could see behind me, and then the mirror broke. Or rather, the presstick holding it in place clung its last.

After what seemed like a three week walk and cursing like a wounded chicken in Ethiopia, finally I made it back to the dealership, review mirror in hand. The snake in a suit simply looked at me and gave me the shrug which I hear is popular among the bastards who sell other people’s rubbish to you.

What seemed to bug me most was strangely not the fact that I had been ripped of off a few hundred thousand rand. But rather that someone with the intelligence of 7nde Laan’s Ou Baas sold me a total heap of scrap.

Angry as I was, the God honest truth is people sell ‘seemingly’ good cars because they are stuffed. You wouldn’t drag the wife into the back yard and shoot her if she had a blocked nose, so why then would one trade in a perfectly suitable car.

Unlike me who is stingy and will fight for every cent given the chance, there are folks out there who can only afford pre-owned vehicles.  If that is you, at least have the common sense to use a reputable dealer. In hindsight I wish I had had the common sense at the time. If all else fails then one would naturally propose using public transport.

That too is problematic.  Riding South African public transport is as safe as stealing live copper wires while sitting in a bathtub. So that means you have to walk and run the risk of being dragged into a bush while someone with HIV has his way with you.

Your options are fewer than Limpopo textbooks. Which ultimately means the pre-owned car dealers have to stay. Therefore I propose they instill a new set of rules. In particular, one that protects the customer for the period up to a year after purchasing from them.

Sound bizarre, not really. A business is largely reliant on its image and how the public perceive them, and having a dealership renown for flogging rubbish isn’t going to down well.

Already there is a list longer than the ANC’s lies which is to do with the consumer protection act. Adding a new clause won’t do any harm, surely. Not that I am interested, but that would perhaps be ‘the bate’ I may fall for. If you’re going to con me into buying trash from you, the least you can do is help me fix it when it breaks.

Sadly, in all likelihood that won’t happen. Resultantly, the rich shall continue to buy new vehicles at a ball-bustlingly expensive price, and the poor, I’m afraid, are left to pick the best of the wheeled-trash.

Rather a sad story, isn’t it? As much as I didn’t want to drag those pot-bellied thugs we call government into this piece, unfortunately it all comes back to them. Instead of scoffing our taxes and using it to build compounds laden with willing, large-arsed women, they could invest in the public transport system. Though that would improve the country, albeit slightly, improvement isn’t on the agenda.

However much I’d like to nail the government about their poor service delivery, this really isn’t about them. It’s about a bunch of crooks that set out to catch people who can barely pay attention, let alone cars. Therefore I propose that people, rich or poor, who buy pre-owned cars, simply turn a blind eye when passing a second-hand car dealer- ship. This isn’t easy especially when you have no means of transport. My solution is simpler and cheaper, not to mention more fun! Get a wheelbarrow.