The wretched tale of Rumpeeelaystiltskin and Queen BS. A tale of dishonesty, deception, treachery, and trickery.
*Take a deep breath*
Once upon a time, in the Kingdom of Botox, in a palace next to a mountainous table, there lived a power-hungry queen called: Queen Black Sash (BS) who had a shameful daughter, whom she called Wouter, because her husband, King Newfound Democracy, actually wanted a son, but because Queen BS nearly got fatally injured while she was busy performing on stage (she loved dancing like a monkey in her new tackies and a dress made from the country’s flag) while she was trying to impress the Media and the mindless masses with her toi-toi dancing and vuvuzela playing; her ovaries became blocked and she could no longer smile normally, or produce a male heir for King Democracy to carry on his male linage, but it didn’t really matter to the King because he was no longer interested in her over-politicized old body anyway, plus the fact that her tea girl was voluptuous in places where normal people didn’t even have voluptuous places, and she had a nice smile, although she didn’t know how to make tea. Which was sad. Phew…
But that’s not important right now.
What is important is that Wouter was a mentally challenged nymphomaniac. Or as they say in Nayderlunch: *Ze was een hersenloze imbeciel met de moraal van een zwerfkat.
Wouter would sleep with anyone who promised her a free house, or a job, or free water, or free electricity, or free education, or a government grunt, or a platinum mine, or economic freedom, or a white owned farm, or a BMW. Or a T-shit. Or a piece a KFC.
And if Wouter couldn’t have her way, she would sulk, and demand, and protest, and much, and ben, and loot, and throw sheet, and destroy, and strike, and skirmish with the corrupt Botox police farce. (Yes. The cops in the Kingdom of Botox were almost, but not quite, as incompetent and corrupt as those in Zumania, or Mzanzi, or Azania, or whatever this godforsaken RSA of ours is called these days.)
Queen BS searched far and wide and high and low and left and right and up and down and over and under for something to keep Wouter from straying from the palace grounds – thus bringing the royal name into disrepute.
One unremarkable day, an outlandish old female sangoma; who wore a discarded saddle blanket on her head (and genuine pearls around her wrinkly old neck), knocked on the palace gate.
“My name is Rumpeeelaystiltskin. You can call me Rumpy. I’ve got R55-million or R500-million – depending on your sauce of information. But, as Irukandji would say: That’s not important right now. So open up, or I’ll huff, and puff, and BEE your house down!” she shouted in a squeaky voice.
“Please! Don’t do it!” begged Queen BS. “I’ll give you a party political platform, or a new policy, or anything you want, just as long as you don’t take my Wouter away from me!”
“BS, in case you haven’t noticed, I’ve already got a party political platform. Why would I want another one? And besides, who needs a policy when you’re dealing with Wouter?” asked the discarded, saddle blanketed, old crone from beneath her black saddle blanket with the white decorative beads. “I want to be President of the Kingdom of Botox. And I want to merger, and mingle, and consolidate, and fornicate, and copulate, and do promiscuous things with you! Tonight, when your Wouter has gone to sleep.”
“What do you take me for?” asked Queen BS of Botox. “I might look butch, but I’m not gay. In fact, I’m not even cheery, merry, jolly, light-hearted, jovial, glad, happy, bright, in good spirits, buoyant, or playful. So don’t come with your transgendered sheet to me! I’ll give you a kiss so the media can take a photo of our duplicity, and that’s that. Take it, or leave it!”
“I’ll take it,” mumbled the old crone, drooling with lust all over her genuine pearls. And then Rumpy **kissed Queen BS; long and deep, eyes closed, with flashbulbs lighting up their thin lips which resembled the conjoined slits of two ATMs; caught in the act of procreating. (Or procrastinating – I never know which is which, or who is on top, when these political animals copulate.)
“Now, to business,” said the Queen of BS – lighting a cigarette – and wiping Rumpy’s drool and electoral elixir from her hair, and blue T-shit, and tackies. “What are you going to do about my Wouter?”
“Well, I’ve got a gang of suppottas. I’ll bring them to your palace and maybe they can gang-bang some sense into your Wouter’s head!”
“Great idea!” said Queen BS. “But we must prepare for tomorrow night.”
“Why?” asked Rumpeeelaystiltskin. “What are we going to do tomorrow night?”
“The same thing we do every night, Rumpy – try to take over the world!”
* She was a mindless imbecile with the morals of an alley cat
Photograph: Nardus Engelbrecht/AP
The Guardian, Tuesday 28 January 2014 17.41 GMT
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