Hout Bay is declared independent

2008-02-20 00:00

Brenda was reading the newspaper when she spontaneously erupted with laughter. I didn’t know it was laughter at the time. It’s a rare sound in these parts. I thought she was erupting with something dark and potentially dangerous so I hit the floor and rolled beneath the lounge table where I curled up into the foetal position and lay there like the craven coward that I am.

When I realised I was in no immediate danger, I crawled out pretending that I had dropped something valuable. Brenda pointed out that I didn’t own anything of value, which forced me to go on the offensive. I demanded to know what all this frivolity was about.

She said she had come across a story about a suicide bombing in Afghanistan that killed 80 people. I fell to my knees, tears streaming down my cheeks. Brenda gave me the lazy eye.

“You haven’t heard the funny part yet,” she said. “The bomber blew himself up at a dog-fighting competition.”

“What?” I shouted, on my feet in an instant. “Dog fighting is an ancient and honourable sport enjoyed by kings and commoners alike. It is a cultural tradition no different from gay bashing or Jew baiting.”

Brenda would have none of it. She’s a big fan of dogs and believes that anyone who goes to dog fights deserves to get blown up.

This is why Hillary Clinton must not become the next president of the United States. Women act according to their emotions. For all we know, Clinton still nurses a poisonous well of bitterness towards men who cheat on their wives and, once she is in the White House, she will issue a decree stating that male adulterers will be stoned to death. By the time her hunger for revenge has been sated there will be seven men left in the U.S., none of whom will be her husband.

It could be worse. Barack Obama might get elected and order the immediate incarceration of all white people. The man has the look of the Mau Mau about him, I tell you. Come to think of it, the U.S. could do with a little Kenya-style democracy.

As we speak, the U.S. is in the throes of a sub-prime mortgage crisis. I don’t understand what this means either. Where I come from we use blunt machetes to achieve a greater understanding of things. There’s nothing like a little hacking and bludgeoning to shed light on a complex situation, and the best way to end this incomprehensible crisis is for Washington to wake up to the sight of several hundred half-naked black men wearing reflecting sunglasses and red bandannas screaming in Swahili and manning swivel-mounted machine guns welded to the back of stolen stripped-down bakkies.

I switched on CNN to calm down and saw a strap that read: “Bush in Africa”. Well, duh. These yankees really need to get out more. What next? Ice in Antarctica? Rivers in Brazil? Desert in Australia?

It turned out that with the finishing line in sight, the supreme commander has decided to be extra nice to the savages. Something to do with needing a legacy, apparently.

The doe-eyed anchor informed me that George W. Bush is on a six-day, five-nation tour of Africa. That’s a tour? It can take me six days just to find my way back home after a night out with Ted.

Tanzanian president Jakaya Kikwete called Bush a good friend of Africa. Bush scratched his chin and the CIA sniper shrugged and lowered his rifle.

The leader of the free world told the leader of the flea world that he was putting up $700 million towards the fight against Aids. That’s rich, considering that the disease was started by two men in tight shorts and moustaches having hot green-monkey sex in a San Francisco bathhouse.

I went to fetch a beer from the fridge and when I came back Bush had been replaced by something even more disturbing. “Right now, Russia is angry,” said the anchor. I dropped my beer and shouted at Brenda to run for the underground bunker. She shouted back that I hadn’t built it yet. We stood there shouting at each other as couples do when they have only a few minutes left before the nuclear warheads land.

I was relieved to discover that Russia is not angry with everyone, but only Kosovo, a country the shape of a bloodstain and the size of Benoni. It was part of Serbia until about 8.15 pm on Sunday evening when the Albanian moonshine kicked in and a rowdy mob of gypsies, dressed up as parliamentarians, fired their guns into the air and declared Kosovo a country.

The Serbs are outraged. Ten years ago they gave the Albanians a damn good kicking and told them to behave. And now this. You don’t want to upset the Serbs. They are like white Hutus.

Russian president Vladimir Whatshisface said that independence without United Nations approval would encourage secessionist breakaways around the world.

This is the moment I have been waiting for. I hereby declare myself life president of the Republic of Hout Bay. I also hereby appropriate Lichtenstein Castle as the seat of my government and take great pleasure in announcing that the residents of Imizamo Yethu will make up my Cabinet of 15 000 ministers.

The riding of horses is outlawed and the World of Birds will be converted into an exotic restaurant for the people, which will offer affordable weekly specials such as baked buzzard, tawny tandoori owl, sautéed swan, flambéed flamingo, squirrel monkey on a stick and, on Sundays, boiled pot-bellied property developer.

Our flag will feature a perlemoen and crossed screwdrivers and our anthem will be whatever you feel like singing when drunk. Our national animal will be the brown rat and our national flower, the cannabis sativa. Our coat of arms will be just that — coats fitted with holsters; one gun per coat.

Applications for citizenship are now open.

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