An open letter to Dr Wouter Basson

Dear Wouter,

I thought you might need a few words of support while trying to convince the Health Professions Council that you are not some depraved monster who isn’t fit to slice people open and fiddle with their vital organs while they’re unconscious. You might be a dinosaur in a political sense, but it’s not as if you escaped from Thoracic Park and rampaged like a giant lizard through our cities.

And so what if the media dubbed you “Dr Death”? My own family calls me Dr Drunkenstein. These are terms of endearment and we should be grateful for them.

You have come a long way since slipping the hook on charges of murder, fraud and a range of drug-related offences so impressive that you would almost certainly be guaranteed of a top position in the 28s should you ever decide to move to the Cape Flats.

I cannot understand why, as former head of the old National Party government’s chemical and biological warfare programme, you have still not been given the recognition you so clearly deserve. As you once told the committee, your work was “for the benefit of mankind”. Instead of trying to nail you for unethical conduct, they should be nominating you for a Nobel Prize. I shall write to the Norwegians at once demanding that they at least give you a lifetime achievement award.

Mankind has indeed benefitted from your work. Who among us can forget dancing the night away after popping a couple of Basson’s Brownies at one of the secret raves that made the 1980s such a fun decade? Pure ecstasy, I tell you. Ridiculously pure.

As you told the committee, the ’80s were “crazy years … people did things. Doctors planted bombs”. Right on, bro. You tell ’em. I got so crazy in the ’80s that I planted marijuana. Turned out to be poison ivy. Smoked it anyway. Forgot I had a job. Went colour blind. Misplaced my girlfriend. Damn fine stuff.

You also told the committee that you never intended to hurt anyone and simply wanted to make a difference. That’s the whole point of germ warfare, isn’t it? Making a difference. Why can’t the council see this?

There was a report in the papers about you having been involved in some sort of altruistic reach-for-a-dream scheme for Swapo prisoners. If I remember correctly, they wanted to experience the joys of sky-diving. They were given fabulous drugs and dropped over the Atlantic. It’s not your fault the army couldn’t afford parachutes.

Your critics also claim you manufactured Mandrax and had it distributed among the anti-apartheid community. If that’s true, I think it was a very noble gesture. Lefties in those days could barely afford a toasted sandwich, let alone a bagful of quality smokable items. Back then, there was nothing quite like a white pipe to lift your spirits and dispel those state of emergency blues.

And how about that drug-laced teargas? I always thought the protestors were doubled over in pain. Turns out they were laughing. What a hoot! Wish I’d been sprayed with some of that stuff. Oh, well. That’s the price I paid for supporting apartheid.

Ironic, isn’t it, that you were fired by FW de Klerk and rehired by Nelson Mandela. Apparently the ANC didn’t want you selling your secrets to the Libyans. Or worse, the Americans. You know who needs you now? The Iranians, that’s who. I can hear President Hassan Rouhani shouting, “Unleash Wouter Basson!” Nobody is going to care about oppressing the Palestinians if there’s LSD in their water supply.

Word on the street is that you haven’t dabbled in chemicals for years, which is more than I can say for most of the people I know. Are you happy as a heart surgeon? I don’t think it’s for me. Cardiology is fine as a hobby but it’s not really a man’s job, is it. You need slender, girly fingers to be able to root around in a person’s chest cavity. And it’s not like they can fight back, either. I have big, powerful hands that can reach down a man’s throat and rip out his heart in one fluid movement, even when I am on pethidine. Especially when I am on pethidine.

Are you still operating behind the Boerewors Curtain? Watch your back, my friend. Durbanville isn’t what it used to be. The English-speakers are moving in under cover of darkness and there have been recent sightings of people who aren’t white.

Pathologically yours,

Dr Benzedrine Trovato

PS. If things turn nasty at your hearing, stand up and say to the committee: “I will give you my scalpel when you pry it from my cold, dead hands.” It worked for Charlton Heston and it can work for you.

An Open Letter To Nelson Mandela

Dear Madiba,

You probably won’t get this because the mail doesn’t always get through to the intensive care unit at the Pretoria Medi-Clinic Heart Hospital, but I thought I’d write to you anyway.

I have a feeling that nobody tells you anything these days, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. You wouldn’t want to be on Facebook or have a Twitter account. It would make you angrier than Winnie ever did.

You are causing quite a commotion, I can tell you. I don’t recall ever seeing every major television network in the world running this many lead stories about an old man lying in a hospital bed. You’d laugh. I’m sure you would.

Dozens of them are out there right now, sleeping rough on the cold streets of Jozi, waiting for you to kick the bucket. Some people are calling them vultures. They aren’t, really. They just want to be there when you do decide to shuffle off this mortal coil.  Knowing Jacob Zuma’s impish sense of humour, he will hold a press conference in Pretoria when he gets the call. What fun it would be to see all those outside broadcast vans scrambling for the N1. I think the Americans will get there first. As you know, they can be pretty pushy when it comes to getting what they want. After all, it was George Herbert Walker Bush who got you out of jail, not FW de Klerk. Am I right?

It’s costing the international media tens of thousands of dollars a day to maintain a presence outside your hospital. Live feeds don’t come cheap these days. They are not bad people. But you are costing them money. And there are other stories to be covered. They are hungry, thirsty, dirty and tired. Most of them, dare I say, would appreciate it tremendously if you popped off sooner rather than later.

I would like to see you make enough of a recovery to flirt with a nurse, shout at a doctor, condemn the ANC for tolerating incompetence and fostering corruption, and send the journalists sloping back to their lairs thinking it’s another false alarm. Then, quite unexpectedly, you go off to heaven to organise an armed uprising against the tyranny of God.

A reporter for the Sophiatown Sun, lost and drunk, staggers past the hospital and lands the scoop of the century. That’s the kind of poetry this country needs right now.

I’m not sure if you know this, but you do have your critics. In medieval times, they would have been burnt at the stake. However, few of us can afford steak these days. I’m sorry. This is no time for jokes.

Your critics, most of whom have good jobs and live in the suburbs, say that you were too soft on the white people. That instead of national reconciliation, there should have been a policy of national retribution. I don’t always know if they’re proposing a pound of flesh or a pound of Sterling.

Looking back, you might perhaps have done more to encourage the rich to give to the poor. Thabo Mbeki confused the rich with his sophisticated pipe-smoking ways and post-prandial, neo-Marxist, watch-out-for-the-tokoloshe talk. Then Jacob Zuma came along and scared the rich right out of the country.

I see some of your family has come to visit you. That’s lovely. Did you see Zaziwe Dlamini-Manaway and Swati Dlamini? Security probably blocked them because they had a bigger television crew than CNN. Imagine trying to get into the hospital by claiming that you have your own TV show called Being Mandela, but your ID says Dlamini-whatwhat.

Most of your judgment calls were spot on. Becoming a lawyer, for instance. That was a brilliant idea. The Boers would never have dared arrest a lawyer. Oh, wait.

But having been acquitted at Rivonia, you should have gone to ground. What the hell were you doing on the R103? You should have been on the N2. It’s quicker and the filth only put up roadblocks over Easter.

You know what else you should have done? You should have started a fitness class. Did you ever watch one of Jane Fonda’s workout videos? That would have been in 1982, the same year you were transferred from Robben Island to Pollsmoor Prison.

If you had come out of jail and launched a health and lifestyle video, you would be a rich man today. Oh, right. You are a rich man. Well, you were until your lawyers, family, friends and enemies started tearing each other apart to get a slice of that big ol’ Madiba pie.

All I’m saying is that you’re still alive at 94, whereas a lot of people who didn’t spend 20 years on an island aren’t. Sure, it wasn’t exactly Humming Bird Cay in the Bahamas, but you got lots of fresh air, a fair bit of exercise in the limestone quarry, early nights, no alcohol and no women. I think I would rather die young. But that’s just me.

I won’t tell you about the things that are going on in the name of the liberation struggle because you’d probably have a heart attack and then my letter to you would be redundant. I would have wasted a couple of hours and you’d feel that you would have wasted your entire life.

Your slapping PW Botha’s hand aside in 1985 and saying, “With all due respect, Meneer Botha, if you want to free me, you have to free all of us, or you can go fuck yourself” resonated with the nation. It taught us the principle of all for one and one for all. Now it’s just a free for all. But that’s not your problem. Nor is it your fault. The white pigs emigrated and left the trough wide open for the black pigs. We are human animals. It’s our nature.

I don’t believe you stopped a genocidal bloodbath. But if you did, thank you for that. What you did do, though, was lift the name South Africa out of the rotten stinking fetid swamp that the National Party had dragged it into. You gave our country a name that we – oppressed and oppressors – could at last be proud of.

So it’s midnight on June 13th, 2013. I raise my glass to you, Madiba.

Hamba kahle.

An open letter to Candith Mashedo-Dlamini – Mpumalanga MEC for Health

Dear Candith,

I can’t help thinking I have developed a lisp every time I say your name, which, admittedly, isn’t often enough for me to worry about a speech defect. But this is not why I am writing to you.

I am volunteering to stand with you in your fight against those who are demanding that you be fired. Fired for what? Merely for saying that, as a woman, you can’t get involved in the deaths of 29 teenagers in your province? That is outrageous. As you so rightly pointed out, women cannot concern themselves in the traditional affairs of men.

Personally, I think circumcision is heavily overrated as a requisite in the transition from boyhood to manhood. Try as I might, I can’t make the connection between a foreskin and becoming a man.

In my culture, boys become men when they are old enough to drink and drive and find their way to the clitoris without a map. It has nothing to do with their willies. If you’re not circumcised, all it means is that you’re not Jewish, Muslim or a member of the Ethiopian Orthodox Church.

In an interview a year ago after being appointed MEC for agriculture, you were asked why you had accepted the job. I loved your answer. “We are in this position because we participated in the struggle before, and we belonged to the political party so after winning the election we were deployed to certain positions.”

I cannot imagine why they took agriculture away from you and gave you health. Anyway. Speaking to the media after the initiates died of dehydration, hypothermia and hemorrhaging, you were once again at your eloquent best.

“This is a tradition. So in other traditions, whether there are deaths or what, but a woman can’t come closer to that.”

It is so refreshing to find an honest politician who speaks her mind, even if she appears to have lost most of it.

Apart from having bits of their willies chopped off, the initiates are also expected to spend nights sleeping outside. This is apparently meant to toughen them up and prepare them for life as adults. With the economy the way it is, and the filthy banks repossessing our homes, we’re all going to have to get used to sleeping outside before long.

Wouldn’t it be more helpful if initiation schools taught the boys how to apply for tenders, for example?

A circumcised willy isn’t going to get you far in life. There’s no money in it. Some of my best friends lost their foreskins when they were babies and many went on to lose their wives, cars and houses.

I am a big fan of culture and tradition. For instance, you won’t find me without a bottle of Jameson’s in my hand on St Patrick’s Day. Or any day, really. But even I find it hard to support a tradition that maims and kills each year. Don’t get me wrong. I think teenage boys are appalling and some of them deserve to lose one or two non-essential body parts. But let’s be honest. Culpable homicide does cast a bit of a pall on the festivities.

An Open Letter To Senzeni Zokwana – President of the National Union of Mineworkers

Dear Comrade,

I hear you are demanding pay rises of around 60% from gold and coal producers. This is ridiculous. What on earth are you thinking? You need to demand increases of at least 150%. This is no time to show weakness.

If negotiations aren’t going your way, change your strategy. When management baulks at your demands, don’t threaten to strike and walk out. Rather identify the alpha male in the management pack, climb quickly across the table and bite him firmly on the ear. Don’t let go, even when people try to hose you down. Emitting a low growl will send a message that you are not to be trifled with. After a few minutes, the CEO will stop resisting and go limp. You may now release your grip and continue negotiations. I think you will find management far more amenable to your demands.

I see you’re having a spot of bother with these Amcu interlopers. What a damned nerve they have, recruiting mineworkers by promising them the world and then failing to deliver. That’s been your job for years.

I’m a bit confused about something. Calling for unions to co-exist peacefully, Mineral Resource Minister Susan Shabangu said, “The NUM is not the enemy of Amcu and Amcu should not be the enemy of NUM.”

It must be rather nice for the union to have its own spokesperson in the cabinet, but doesn’t this confuse the workers? After all, governments are traditionally the enemy of labour movements. Then again, your mother, Cosatu, is sleeping with the enemy, so maybe it does make sense.

Shabangu also said unions had a common class enemy in “monopoly capital”. I’m a gibbering idiot when it comes to finance, but without monopoly capital, wouldn’t the mining industry collapse faster than a shop steward in a shebeen on payday?

Anyway. I don’t know what your members have got to complain about. Winter is almost here and while most of us have to go to work and freeze our giblets off, your people spend their days in cosy underground tunnels. They are even allowed to take their shirts off at work. If I had to try that, I’d be torn apart by the ladies in the accounts department.

You need to cut your losses, my friend. Lonmin has fallen to Amcu. You need to march on Mordor (Impala Platinum) and Isengard (Billiton) and dig in. Take the Orcs of Solidarity with you, if you can. They are smarter than they look.

I hear AngloGold Ashanti will no longer be paying your R1.4-million a year salary. What a shame. I’m sure you will agree that the only real conflict of interest in this novel arrangement arose when you had to decide whether a savings or money market account gave the best returns.

Anyway. You don’t need money. You’re a communist. Act appropriately.

An Open Letter To The African Union

Dear AU,

Congratulation on turning 50! You’ve come a long way without actually going anywhere.

You’ve gone through quite a few changes, too. I remember when you were the Organisation of African Unity. Like so many youngsters, you fell in with the wrong crowd as soon as you were old enough to let go of your colonial coattails.

I remember you hanging out with lovable rogues like Mobutu Sese Seko, Muammar Gaddafi, Idi Amin and Haile Selassie, who was a step up from the rest because he at least invented reggae music and smoked weed. You certainly earned the right to be known as the Dictators’ Club.

You changed your name to the African Union in 2002, presumably after realising that African unity was, like, the biggest pie you ever saw in the sky. There isn’t even a family on this continent, let alone a government, that has managed to achieve unity. When Gaddafi started blabbing on about being the president of the United States of Africa, you had to hire the Americans to put him down. Unity is heavily overrated. Look at Europe. I got a call last night from Brussels begging me to lend money to Spain.

Like me, as you get older, you’re moving a bit slower with each passing year. When that scuffle broke out in Mali last year, it took forever before you tried to do anything about it. I expect you’ll be addressing the Mau Mau rebellion at any moment.

Now that you’re officially middle-aged, you will probably find that you start forgetting things. Like who co-founded you. “Thabo who?” I hear you say. You must be relieved that there is no more talk of the African Renaissance. Like a freshly peeled mango, it was a concept that many of your members found hard to grasp.

I see your foreign ministers have backed a request by Kenya for the International Criminal Court to stop badgering their president. Crimes against humanity aren’t what they used to be. In the good old days, you would have to murder half your population to get that kind of attention. Now you turn a blind eye to a spot of post-electoral pushing and slapping and it’s off to The Hague for you.

Nearly half of the 20 most corrupt countries in the world are African. This is excellent news. All of them might have been African. This is real progress.

The quality of leadership is also improving. Our own president, for instance, makes Barack Obama look like a swivel-eyed illiterate. As for Robert Mugabe, well, there is no finer example of the perfect democrat.

Best of luck in spending the next 50 years searching for African solutions to African problems. Self-sharpening machetes would be a good place to start.

An Open Letter To Atul Gupta

Dear Atul,

May I call you Atul? You have been in the news so frequently that you feel like an old friend. A friend who once banged my wife, but a friend, nevertheless.

I have so many questions for you that I barely know where to begin. Let me jump in with the most pressing one. When my computer starts, it sounds like a chartered jet coming in to land at Waterkloof Air Force Base. It whines and chatters worse than a roomful of Gujarati housewives. Sometimes I have to kick it to shut it up. No wonder they call it booting Windows. Do you think my hard drive is about to fail? Perhaps I should get a Mac. You already have one – Mac Maharaj. I apologise. This is no time for jokes.

I will be popping in to Sahara Computers next week. I expect you will want to give me a hefty discount when you find who I know. I can’t give specific details because, thanks to you, name-dropping now carries a life sentence. Think of a number. That’s it. You got it in One. Shall we say 75% off?

So how is He Who Shall Not Be Mentioned these days? Have you had him around for tea and a debriefing since the wedding? Our man is known to stick by his friends through thick and thin. Schabir Shaik might disagree, but then he has been downgraded to Untouchable so it doesn’t really matter what he thinks.

I hope the hostility of the bloody agents working for our counter-revolutionary media hasn’t put you off doing business in our otherwise friendly country.

Indians contribute a hell of a lot to our economy. I’m not talking about Bobby selling gold Rolexes there by Addington Beach– buy one get one free – but principled men like you who have one leg in the motherland and the other in the mother lode.

I read somewhere that when the family empire began expanding, your older boet, Ajay, was sent to China to check things out. Apparently he was only offered shares instead of full control. Was he talking about a factory or the whole country?

Good thing it didn’t work out. Chinese premiers don’t come cheap. You also wouldn’t want to try the Waterkloof stunt at Liangxiangzhen Air Base. Your entire wedding party would still be in one of their delightful laogai camps. Probably making computer parts.

You said in an interview in 2011 that setting up shop (a charming euphemism for a unique brand of imperialism) in South Africa was easy “because we didn’t find any red tape”. Don’t bluff me, Atul. You must have stumbled across the secret to one of our government’s magic tricks. Sprinkle a few drops of money on a piece of red tape, look the other way and woohoo! No more red tape.

One last thing. Next time you invite a whitey for curry, call me and not Helen Zille. I’ll do you plenty of favours, but don’t give money. One lekka mutton breyani will do me.

 

An Open Letter to President Jacob Zuma

Dear #1,

Do you mind if I call you Number One? It has the ring of victory to it. Oh sure, it also has ablutionary connotations, but you won’t find anyone in my circle of friends saying things like, “I need to make a Zuma.” That’s DA talk, that is. I will have no truck with open toilet humour.

I wanted to congratulate you on your efforts to avoid any of the Gupta muck sticking to you. They don’t call you the Teflon President for nothing! Personally, I don’t buy the Teflon thing. Unless, of course, you really are made of Teflon, in which case I am with you all the way.

I have learnt many of my survival skills from watching animals. Well, watching Animal Planet, anyway. You wouldn’t catch me anywhere near those filthy beasts. When there is danger, for instance, the hyena will run away. When I see the police, I also run away. But if a burglar, perhaps a smallish woman, breaks into my home and is unarmed, I will confront her, much like the elephant confronts the honey badger when he tries to steal the elephant’s honey.

You seem to have mainly been watching programmes on ostriches. Good for you. They are magnificent birds, especially when marinated in monkey gland sauce. But they are also very good at ignoring a problem until it disappears.

When an ostrich senses danger and cannot run away, perhaps because its legs are being cooked at a nearby shisa nyama, it flops to the ground and remains still. This clearly worked for you. I hope there were no nasty spills as civil servants stampeded for the exits at 3.30pm every day. I expect staff were warned to step over you.

An ostrich is born to run. You were also born to run – for president. Did you know that ostriches eat whatever is available? Plants, lizards, rocks. It’s all food to them. It wouldn’t surprise me if your nephew Khulubuse had a bit of ostrich in him.

Getting back to the problem that doesn’t exist. What are you doing about that Lieutenant-Colonel Christine Anderson? She distinctly said Number One was aware of the Gupterian takeover of Waterkloof Air Force Base. I hope you have offered her a suitable gift to keep her mouth shut. You know what women are like. You frequently have to buy their silence. I cannot begin to imagine how much you have to fork out to get some peace and quiet at Nkandla.

Don’t get her the same gift that was given to chief of state protocol, Bruce Koloane. She won’t feel special and will tell everyone that you were with Lee Harvey Oswald the day JFK was shot.

 

An Open Letter to the Independent Communications Authority of South Africa

Dear Sir or Madam,

Forgive me for I know not whether you are a sir or a madam. For all I know, you are both. If you are indeed a hermaphrodite or even a transsexual who dreams of one day undergoing gender reassignment surgery, may I take this opportunity to wish you luck. Some of my best friends are trapped inside a woman’s body. In one case, quite literally.

While we are on the sticky subject of genitalia, I would like to congratulate you on your legal victory against those godless purveyors of filth, TopTV. Had you not stepped in and hauled those vile degenerates into court, this country would be on its knees right now. Performing acts of unspeakable depravity on a vulnerable neighbouring country, no doubt.

Three channels of porn? I mean, really. How very dare they!

This is an honest Christian country and even though the Ten Commandments avoid making specific reference to pornography, I think “Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s ass” comes pretty damn close.

These would be 24-hour channels. More and more people would begin calling in sick. Industries would fail and the economy would collapse. Eskom’s blackouts would see gibbering porn addicts embarking on rolling masturbatory action. The lunatic asylums would be jammed with hairy-palmed madmen and the gutters would overflow with semen.

Many of us who own holiday homes on the moral high ground have learnt, through bitter experience, that sex is a deeply unnatural act.

Who among us can forget the terrible deeds the devil made us do when we were younger? All these years later, we remember the studded gloves, the smell of antiseptic, the sting of the lash, the bone-chilling silence that followed those horrifying words, “Is it in yet?”

We do not want our kids to have to walk through the same fires of damnation.

I am proud to say that my boy Clive still believes babies are made in Wonky Willie’s baby factory in Salt River. He stole my car the other night to go and look for it and came back at 3am. He seemed very agitated and wouldn’t stop talking. Eventually I had to dart him with my tranquilizer gun. Brenda thinks he might have wandered into a crack house.

That’s fine with me. Just as long as he never discovers he is the result of a process so shameful that his mother and I have not repeated it since he was conceived.

TopTV gives a hollow assurance that the filth will not be freely available to everyone, but there is not a child on this planet who couldn’t find his way to their offices, present a fake ID proving he was over 18, take out a subscription, shoplift a decoder, hook it up to the TV, break the encryption code, bypass the security system, tune the channels and change the locks on the house.

In no time at all our suburbs would be full of weeping parents banging on their front doors shouting, “Jimmy! We know what you’re doing in there! Let us in! You’re going to hell if you don’t close your eyes right now!”

My fear is that not even the very real possibility of Jesus withdrawing his unconditional love would be enough to stop little Jimmy from gorging himself sick on this carnal buffet.

It wouldn’t stop there, either. Studies have shown that pornography is a gateway drug to harder habits such as cannibalism, journalism and politics.

Well done on securing the support of Pastor Errol Naidoo and all the other right-thinking Christians who threatened to boycott TopTV and their advertisers if Satan’s broadcaster went ahead with its nefarious plan to destroy humankind as we know it.

Some say you cannot call yourselves “independent” while co-opting allies in your righteous crusade against evil, but these heretics will burn for their sins and I, for one, will be there with marshmallows when they do.

One last request. Please do something about those pagan Muppets who live in sin on Sesame Street. Bert and Ernie are clearly homosexual and have no business being on public television.

You also need to shut down the internet. Did you know that if you type “sex” into Google, you get 3.8-billion results? Many of these sites are unrelated to the human reproductive system and some of the longer lesbian videos can take more than an hour to download. This is outrageous. We need high-speed broadband so we can see what we are fighting against.

I have to go now. There is a fantastic movie starting on SABC3. It’s full of violence, bad language, misogyny and racial prejudice. Just what us decent God-fearing folk need on a Sunday evening.

Welcome To Club Dead

From: bentrovato@mweb.co.za

To: hatemyavuz@superonline.com

Subject: For the attention of Mr Hatem Yavuz of the Hatem Yavuz Group, purveyors of fine pelts and furs

 

Dear Mr Yavuz,

I understand you are the last remaining buyer of Namibian seal skins. Well done! You deserve a medal for sticking to your guns (not to mention your fleshing knives) while everyone else has capitulated to the limp-wristed flower-sniffers.

The homosexual European Union has banned the sale of seal products and even the Canadian government, one of our staunchest allies in the fight against seals, is considering an end to culling.

If this happens, Namibia will be the only country in the world courageous enough to continue clubbing pups for their pelts and shooting bulls for their genitals.

Their president must have Turkish blood in him.

As you know, seals are nothing more than cold-blooded killers who wouldn’t think twice about tearing our throats out. It is only because of people like you that our children are able to play on the beach without fear of being attacked by marauding gangs of biker seals.

I am deeply concerned, however, that someone has got to you. I read somewhere that you are offering to sell your stake in the sealing industry to Francois Hugo, a dangerous man who lives beneath an upturned boat in Hout Bay harbour.

Are you aware that Hugo is a well-known seal hugger? If he buys you out, Namibia’s seals will never again be killed. They will spit in our faces and there won’t be a thing we can do about it.

The good news is that for Hugo to achieve his evil goal, he will have to cough up around $14-million.

From what I have heard, he can barely afford lunch.

However, we should not underestimate the wealth of those who foolishly think that seals were put on this earth for purposes other than providing our oriental brothers and sisters with aphrodisiacs and shiny coats.

I read your recent letter to Namibia’s New Era newspaper and was impressed to hear that you have been converting animals into fashion statements for more than 15 years.

So you’re Turkish? That would explain the name. Here’s an idea for a new slogan. “We hate ’em, You wear ’em.” Did you know hatem is Arabic for seal? What a coincidence.

Emigrating to Sydney was a smart move on your part. Kevin Rudd’s government is made up of a bunch of good old koala-bashers who love the Japanese for getting rid of those unsightly whales that loll about scoffing all the shrimp in Australia’s territorial waters.

I’m sure they treat you like a hero at your local pub.

As you said in your letter, if you don’t buy Namibia’s seal oil and skins, then the Chinese will. God forbid. These people already dominate the mink, fox, raccoon, chinchilla, rabbit, gerbil, weasel and Siberian husky industries. The least they can do is leave the seals for the Australian Turks.

The delicately-boned plant whisperers should also take note of your statement that, by putting seal fur on the market, you actually reduce the culling of American beavers.

At first the logic baffled me, but after a few beers it made sense. You are giving consumers more of a choice. Beaver or seal, madam? I can see how that might save a few. Personally, I have a thing for beaver, but that’s just me.

As you rightly pointed out, the fur and leather trade is almost dead in Europe, presumably because everyone is spending their money on whores, drugs and therapy.

The east, “the new world”, as you call it, has caught up to where the west was a century ago and now it is their turn to parade about in the skins of whatever species they please.

You also made the connection between Namibia’s seal problem and Australia’s kangaroo problem.

Both need to be killed if we hope to preserve our way of life. It must be said that you have chosen the best of the two. Imagine how long it would take to bludgeon 85 000 seal pups to death if they hopped about like kangaroos.

You’re right when you say Francois Hugo has his numbers wrong. He makes out that Namibia has four breeding pairs of seals left but I have been to Swakopmund and I have seen entire families of seals window-shopping, browsing in the markets and even having tea and cake at Café Anton. The shiny black bastards are everywhere.

Don’t waste your time waiting for Hugo to come up with the cash. The concessionaires are getting restless and they may start clubbing white people if you don’t move fast. Put your order in now before the Namibian government bends over for the Chinese.

And don’t worry that you were unable to sell most of last year’s stock. This year will be different. This year, everyone wants to look and smell like a seal.

See you at the club.

Ben Trovato

PS. If you can spare a few bull testicles, please send them my way. I suspect Brenda might rethink matters if I upsized my willy.

If Anyone Can, The Anglican

Dear Archbishop of Canterbury,

My friend Ted and I spent last weekend praying that the Church of England would not allow women to be ordained as bishops. We already live with women who tell us that if we don’t do what they say, we can go to hell. Must we have it in church, too?

So you can imagine our joy when we heard on Monday that the General Synod had taken the Catholic option and pulled out moments before reaching the point of no return.

When I say Ted and I were praying, I mean drinking beer. When I was very young, a wise man told me prayer can take many forms. I decided there and then that I would praise God in the form of beer. And let me tell you, I have given a tremendous amount of praise over the years. In fact, between you and me, I am almost praised-out. But this is okay because the older I get the less I have to be thankful for.

Besides, it’s not as if God is doing such a fantastic job these days, is it? His earlier work was impressive but he seems to have lost interest.

Anyway. After three or four hours of hard praising, Ted and I came to the conclusion that women wanted to become bishops because of the funky hats and dresses you guys wear.

And who can blame them?

Purple is a passionate colour and women are passionate creatures. Christianity is a passionate religion. And who among us can forget Mel Gibson’s tour de force, The Passion of the Christ? Well, apart from Mel, of course. This crapulous son of Catholicism gave the Judas kiss to his own movie after discovering, too late, that Jesus was Jewish.

You were quoted in the heathen media as saying you hoped that postponing the decision would “lower the temperature” of the debate.

This is beyond a debate, my friend. This is 1534 all over again, except this time you’re not splitting from the Roman Catholic Church, but splitting from yourselves. A bit like ecclesiastical amoebas.

There are those who will shriek and fall about and insist that women should be allowed to become bishops because we are all God’s children. What nonsense. God is not Jacob Zuma. God had only one child – a boy, if I recall.

I blame the insufferable suffragettes, those professional naggers who went on and on and on until the British government went mad and agreed to give women the vote.

Anything to shut them up.

Once they had the vote, they demanded all sorts of things and today there are men sitting at home with no supper because their wives are out flying helicopters in Afghanistan. A shameful state of affairs all round.

As for the outrageous notion of bishops with breasts, your General Synod voted 288 in favour of postponing a decision, 144 voted against and 15 abstained.

I bet the darkies abstained. They still can’t believe their luck at being allowed to become bishops ahead of women and they certainly aren’t going to stick their heads above the parapet just yet.

This is not a time to be fannying about with votes. You don’t see the pope bothering with the niceties of democracy, do you? The faithful need to be ruled with an iron fist.

Drive across England in an armoured archbishopmobile and tell people in no uncertain terms how to behave and what to think. Get a posse of defrocked priests to round up the dissenters and have them shot.

You warned last week the church was “looking into the abyss” over the issue. I think you need to use stronger language. As long as Christianity has eternal damnation at its disposal, the idea of a piffling abyss is not going to frighten anyone. In fact, I have seen some stunning abysses. All you are really doing is threatening people with a view of the Fish River Canyon.

You allowed women to enter the priesthood twenty years ago, then turned the other cheek and hoped they would be happy with that. There’s the problem. You people just don’t understand women.

Give a girl a dog collar and sooner or later she will want a cassock. Any idiot off the street could have told you that.

You’re on a slippery slope, comrade. Look what’s happening with your morally flexible cousins, the Episcopalians. Not only have they decided to bless gay relationships, but while you were playing for time on the babes-for-bishops business, they were voting to give transgender people the right to become ministers. Transgender clergy!

Now you don’t know who you might be taking home after a particularly arousing sermon. It’s worse than Thailand.

The Episcopal Church is a hotbed of tolerance and equity. No good can come of it. Please don’t go down that road. Prejudice is an essential tool in helping us to judge others. Without it, religion would cease to exist.

And what kind of terrible world would that be?